The Chimes at Midnight
by LightofaThousandSuns
Summary: AU. Two months after WWII, Arthur Kirkland, assistant to the Prime Minister, causes his occult habit to go awry; for summoning a ghost named Alfred was NOT planned; neither was the shared journey of agony, romance & murder.USUK, one-sided FrUK. HIATUS?
1. Prologue: In Which the Gods Do Err

A/N: This is the beginning of a new tale! Yes, "Let Me Be Your Savior" is not finished yet, but we're halfway done, and I'm excited to begin my next story—and not to mention, my muse keeps annoyingly poking me in the side, haha.

If you're reading 'Savior', you know that I love writing mature themes, so here's a rundown for "The Chimes at Midnight".

- **Heavy Yaoi **(USxUK, some UKxUS), talk/**act (past act) of murder**, character death (Obvious, since one is a ghost XD) talk/**act of suicide**, swearing/ language, some old English in spell books, spells/occult/magic themes, thoughts of insanity, romance between living and dead. World War II references as well.

Yeah, I bolded the big ones, heh. So yes, this will be a very serious story. BUT, there is going to be a LOT of humor in the first half. :]

Title comes from the quote, "_We have heard the chimes at midnight_", from the Shakespeare play 'King Henry the IV, Part II'.

So, scared off? I thought not, ha! Enjoy, this will be updated frequently, and although the prologue is short, expect the other chapters to be a lot longer! :D

Expect updates for this to be once and a while right now, since I'm still writing 'Savior'.

Song Inspiration:

- "Frozen", by Within Temptation

* * *

_"The lawn_

_Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return_

_Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn,_

_The sad intangible who grieve and yearn...."_

_- T.S. ELIOT, '__To Walter de la Mare'_

* * *

Debates have existed for centuries on a number of stated philosophical topics: Life, Justice, Sin, Human Anger, Human Lust, and so on and so forth. Reality and Time have also been put into this potpourri of ideals, and humans have put their own views on both topics; some would state reality is conjured up by the Gods of the massive assorted religions of the populations. Others would state that reality is just reality—that it exists because humanity exists—but they would also argue that the ideal was _unchangeable_. That as the days go by, humans are powerless to change their world, their Reality, their Universe; and these persons would go on to lecture that this was because not of Gods, or the Omniscient, but of just Life. That life moves on, that we are born and then die thusly, and we can do little to make it otherwise.

Little do these humans know, they are both incorrect; concerning different parts of their statements, of course.

Although there are Gods (of course, if you are a human listener of this tale, you are subject to believe otherwise), they are not the Supreme Deities many have been lead to believe in; in fact, the Gods that exist today may be all-seeing, but they are not all-_doing_. They may have created the Universe, but their abilities stop there. They are not in control of all the puppet-strings. Although they can dip Their hands into our human melting pots, the Gods can be outvoted when issues of control spring upon Them.

This is the case of a particular human's untimely demise…

...That should not have occurred.

Months later, once the issue of the soul's entrance to the Other Side was resolved, some of the Deities wondered if demons themselves had had a hand in the death of the American boy, the boy who should not have fallen into the sea during one of the three-hundred-and-sixty-three bombings of Berlin. His plane had been heading for the nation, so why did the plane supposedly fail? When it was supposedly ordained that it would not? My, the boy, the boy…his future was to look bright after that day. He was to receive medals for bravery, awards for cunning, and even meet the great Churchill himself, due to his heroics and helpfulness concerning the British army; alright, he was to have met Churchill's assistant, but Winston was a busy man, after all. And let us not even mentioning the lad's future _marriage _to....ah, no, no...one cannot go there...

So what actually _happened_…?

Why did Alfred F. Jones have his plane crash into the Atlantic Ocean, not even an hour away from Berlin, flames gashing up into the air, slicing the noise of humming aircraft like a perfected Japanese sword?

Did a demon tap a claw on a supposed-ally, turning him into foe? Or, and this is a bigger issue, did the Gods misjudge Alfred's fate?

For, unlike what some are lead to believe, omnipotence allows the Gods to be able to see everything at once—it does not mean they see the future. They see the here and now, very little more.

Indeed, multiple beliefs are just _lies_...

So yes, humans—A God's omniscient features are indeed limited. Or so it should be told at this state and time; for, after all, none of them saw what was to happen to Alfred Jones coming. At _all_. And they immediately regretted it.

But, it should also be stated that sometimes the omniscience is just blocked. Unusable. Unreliable. Or, in another blunt way, the bloody Gods were so busy living it up on ambrosia and wine that they were too damn drunk to even notice.

No matter what caused the blonde boy's death to occur remains to be seen; perhaps, deep down, even farther down that what we humans can believe, the Gods planned this to happen. After all, some did love to interfere with the mortals. Why, just ask Zeus!

But, I digress, to the other part of the philosophical debate: Reality.

Reality in itself, through the right methods, through the right means…is indeed changeable.

Oh, I can hear you laughing. You are thinking to yourself: 'Well, sure, you go through life, you make your own decisions, your word thus changes from those decisions, no man is an island…'

Au contraire, my dears—though all of that is true, it is not the full extent of what Reality is.

Reality is not just the future, it is the present, too. But most of all, Reality is the _past_.

Oh, and now all of the avid listeners of this speech are giggling, for you are making assumptions—they firmly believe that the past is the past, that it is set in stone, that…well, many reasons upon reasons could be stacked up.

And yet…they would all turn out to be incorrect.

Indeed, it is true, not just anyone can have an action, a 'time-travel' of sorts, and fix an event that occurred time before, and make it so it never happened at all.

But one young man would. Accidentally, of course.

And he would cry, due to what emotion, I cannot say at this time, once he realized that, indeed, _that _was the path he was going to take, concerning his alive state.

And his means; yes they were unconventional, they were unexpected, and they even had some chocolate stains on their pages from the last owner, but Arthur Kirkland would obtain them—and use them.

And although he would never be the same after that July day in nineteen-forty-five, just two months after the end of a War that nearly caused humanity to cease altogether…

The lad would be alright with that; in time, of course.

For time…yes, time. It is about time the actual instances that truly matter and that truly concern this tale were eventually told, and so it shall begin immediately.

It begins with a body plummeting into the ocean, feeling every singe of the flames biting into his skin, as his plane's breaks 'failed'; it begins with a an anguished cry of pain that is silenced by the ocean waves washing over burnt, once-beautiful, lips.

It begins with a triumphant cry from another blonde, out of sheer victory over a plan well establish…

…And it begins two months after World War II, with a knock on the door leading to Arthur Kirkland's office...

* * *

A/N: And there's the prologue! : D Like, dislike? Confused? Want to comment? Well, you know what to do!

Thanks so much for reading, I'll be planning to update this shortly!


	2. One: In Which Instructions Are Not Read

A/N: Here's the first major chapter of 'Chimes'! Thanks go out to those that have already shown interest, there's much more to come. Enjoy!

Song Inspiration:

- "They Say", by Scars on Broadway

- "Wasted", by Carrie Underwood (Greatly inspired Arthur as a whole in this chapter--and throughout this story)

- "All Around Me", by Flyleaf

- "Monster", by Meg and Dia

- "Welcome to the Black Parade", by My Chemical Romance

Italics represent inner thoughts--and a dream sequence farther down.

* * *

_Now it is the time of night_

_That the graves, all gaping wide,_

_Every one lets forth his sprite_

_In the church-way paths to glide._

- WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_

_**

* * *

**_

_**ACT I: For Whom the Bell Tolls**_

_**July 15, 1945- City of Manchester, of the United Kingdom**_

To say that Arthur Kirkland had a nasty habit of becoming absorbed in his work would be putting it mildly--it would have been like stating that a rabbit enjoys carrots, or that a soldier knows how to use a rifle; you were not asserting powerful details, and not using enough emphasis. For the two latter cases, soldiers must know how to use _multiple _types of ammunition and artillery, and the majority of the population of furry rabbits _love _carrots, and cannot obtain enough of them.

So when it comes to Arthur Kirkland, his work was not just absorbed--it was taken in like water and nourishment is taken in by weeds. And it becomes his sole focus. In a way, it ruled his world--an unhealthy trait, but it nonetheless existed. And when work is your sole focus for a prolonged period of time, oh my!

And of course, the Briton's secretary, Gregory McAffe, knew this for a fact; he had worked with the sandy blonde boy for just a wee bit over three years; so Gregory was quite used to having to knock multiple times on the large, chocolate-brown door in front of his eyes. Why, the twenty-two year old could just picture the elder male hunched over his desk, spectacles dangling from a small nose primly, jade gems staring at the mounds of paperwork Arthur usually had surrounded around his aura.

Which, with all due to respect to Gregory's possible psychic abilities, was an accurate picture for that moment.

Another knock, another sigh, and yet, Arthur heard none of it, the reports of post-war recovery becoming the only things his mind paid heed to; but who could blame him for being absorbed, when it was his job--and personality--to be so? The blonde boy was only twenty-three and he had gotten farther than many of his contemporaries and peers. This was not just his own private office, set up in Manchester's town hall, for the sake of safety and privacy, no…it was next to the great Churchill's office.

Of course, he had had connections, and still did--Someone knew someone who knew someone who used to know his father, and the first someone knew Winston Churchill, and…well, it is something like that. But Arthur had not just been picked for his allies in the political world; oh, no, the Prime Minister of England made it clear every day that the Kirkland bloke had that special personality to make it in this world of ruling a nation--a world of politics.

But assistant to the Prime Minister! Ah, what a treat! And to actually be coordinating the recovery plan for England after this bloody war's final curtain call! And not to mention, he had helped Winston plan some of the attacks during the war as well, for Arthur not only had always been a risk taker since his golden-boy and more youthful days, but he had been using strategy ever since he could remember. One must look three moves ahead, that was the motto so often used by him. It was like a game a chess, which was, no surprise, one of the Englishman's favorite games of intellect.

This position was wont for celebration as well, and brought a great boost to Arthur's popularity; he had been noticed before, in society, as a schoolboy, mainly for his intelligence and strength, character-wise. But now, his name was more house-hold oriented, and it was not rare for 'That Knowledgeable Kirkland' to be brought up around the dinner roast.

And now, now was when his nation needed him the most…When after so much hellfire had been unleashed, and when the entire United Kingdom hinged on his help, on his helping Master Churchill…He was going to turn into…well…a _hero_, if he got lucky; not that Arthur wanted wide-spread heroism. He just wanted to do the right thing; if that resulted in an escalation of praise, well! That was just good luck then.

Unfortunately, in Churchill's eyes, the young European had been working too hard; which, when Arthur was alone in his office, he would admit to be true. Thankfully, at the elder's assistance, he had…gained some hobbies. Embroidery, was one. Diversifying his musical tastes, another…

…Buying _certain _books for _certain _activities was another…But Churchill did not need to be informed of that one, especially the titles of said books-

"Mister Kirkland? Are you in?" Ah, poor Gregory; how long had he been knocking and standing out there this time?

With a sigh, the green-eyed boy lifted his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, out of embarrassment, with just a tinge of annoyance--after all, Arthur did need to read this paperwork, write some notes in the margins, develop a plan for reviving the economy, find ways to assist his people, rebuild Manchester itself after some of those more recent bombings-

"Mister Kirkland?" My, that boy was impatient, was he not? Impatience was a capital sin in the Kirkland's book, but he kept his tongue in check.

"Yes, Gregory, you may enter." He did not even deign getting up from his desk, out of the lack of energy, and will.

The door opened slightly, and the Irish lad entered, red hair frazzled, while freckled hands fixed the round spectacles that enveloped his entire face; quite a differenced from Arthur's small, rectangular reading glasses.

"Ah, Sir, I am just here to deliver a message from Master Churchill. He wishes to speak with you immediately, in his office."

"Mmhm." If one jokingly said Arthur was addicted to his work like a cheap floozy was addicted to…well, _that_, they would be one-hundred percent correct. For, right after the McAffe boy had spoken the word 'Sir', Arthur had turned his eyes back to the jobs situated around his desk, his pens, and the remnants of a small sandwich for lunch--that he had eaten while working, mind you, "Tell Master Churchill I shall speak to him shortly. Is that all, Gregory?"

"Ah, well…" The ginger would not admit it, but he felt that sometimes, Arthur could pay him a bit more respect. But Gregory held the man in high honor, and in his young mind, being the Kirkland's 'secretary' was the highest honor a Brit could achieve at this point in time, and who knew where the man could go from here!

"Well, what?" It was a snap; Arthur hated pussy-footing around a topic at hand; either say it or do not, there were no other choices. Not to mention, the blonde man was tired--another factor he rarely took into account when the siren call of work was sounded out was how many hours of sleep he should be getting.

"Ah! U-Uh…W-Well, the postmaster d-dropped this off for you…"

The hand Gregory had hidden behind his thin back revealed itself, and the medium-sized, rectangular package held within it; it was not highly decorated, only covered with brown, sheer-like paper, and the classic mail tools: a small stamp in the corner, and two address, a return and receiver.

Arthur had raised his head at his own assistant's statement, and he was sure his eyes were to fall out of his head; it had arrived!? Why, the bookshop owner in Yorkshire had stated that…that it would probably not arrive for some time-

"Ah…J-Just leave that on my desk, thank you Gregory." Emerald orbs kept themselves glued to the yellowish-oak desk, lest the McAffe see Arthur's growing happiness and excitement, and overstep his boundaries, and question what the package actually was.

Of course, since Arthur had ordered things before, and had requested them to be delivered to his office before, Gregory questioned nothing, supposing it was just another novel (rumored to be romance novels, since Churchill's right-hand-man was never seen with a lass--or lad) or instruction manual. Oh, how great his naivety was…

"Yes Sir, thank you for…answering the door in a timely manner, Sir." The red-head gave a slight bow, and his statement, although it had mixed undertones of sarcasm, did state the truth--after all, one time, he had been left outside, standing in the hall, for twenty-minutes before Arthur 'heard' him.

Arthur dared not grab the book quickly, not before Gregory left the room at least; and once the door closed softly, the youthful (Although working for the Kirkland bloke was draining some of the Irish boy's youth, but that thought never really crossed said boss' mind) man's quiet footsteps retreating, heading towards the elevator, or at least, that was the direction Arthur assumed.

But once his emerald eyes locked onto the brown package sitting there, taunting him, his mind could wait no further; small hands darted out, grabbing it, ripping the brown paper off in large sheets at a rapid pace, and yes, YES, this was it.

When Arthur had met the old woman shopkeeper in Yorkshire three weeks ago, on a round trip for business matters, she had murmured that yes, she had heard of this book, but most likely it would take months, years to find it. Though he had never gotten her name, the Englishman remembered her clearly: Snow white hair, flowing down in a braid to her waist, green skirts that flowed like waves--she was no traditional English lass, but Arthur had to put that aside; it was all for this book.

And he realized that he should wonder how the lass got this book so quickly; then again, he remembered that, after an hour of constantly _begging _her to look, just look in her stock, or in the neighboring shops, for at least a _hint_…she had giggled, stating,

"I shall see what I can do, my Son…Now go on, leave a woman to her work. I shall be contacting you soon enough."

Regrettably, the blonde had conceded, nodding somberly, leaving his main address in Manchester for the woman, believing the search to be futile nonetheless. He had come to think that this book, a book he had only heard about through other books, in little reference notes or in the margins, may not have even existed. But here…here it was…

The text in bright gold letters, sewn into the leather cover:

_Leatrice Dixon: Yea Book of Thou Occult Journey- Circa 1778_

_Volume One_

His hand caressed the perfectly-sewn binding, the same title spreading down the spine; it was magnificent.

And it was exactly what Arthur Kirkland had been searching for.

If it is not obvious by now, the European's other hobbies included…well, in the most blunt tones, it could be said that Arthur dipped his hands in magic. Sorcery. The occult. Any noun, just choose one; of course, he was inexperienced. The three other books he had were just tools for beginners--start a fire, put out a fire, little bouts of electric static charge. Nothing large, nothing important, nothing well…attractive.

It was not that Arthur wanted to move onto bigger and better things so others could see them, praise him, say that that creature he had summoned that had behemoth-like wings was beautiful, no; Arthur wanted to do this for himself, for his own pleasure. And this book was just the start. Although one could say that perhaps he was not ready to move on to the higher ranks, deep in his heart, the Prime Minister's assistant knew he was ready, without a doubt.

And really, at the heart of it all, the Briton knew the real reason he wanted to try these larger spells out, specifically the summoning-types:

It was quite lonesome at the top of the political pyramid.

Yes, he had heard the legends of Pucas and the Patagon and even the Pucks, passed down from his now-deceased mother's sweet lips and soft voice; in his childhood days, Arthur had always wanted a friend like such, someone who understood him. School had been all well and dandy, but when you are intelligent, your peers do eye you quite differently, is it not true?

And now, said glances had increased; even if his name was house-hold, known nation-wide, if not universal, could Arthur name one bloke whom he shared drinks with? Could he state a lass who was at least a friend?

A negative answer, to all of the questions, my friends…There really was no one Arthur could think of daily as a close friend; maybe that was why he buried himself in his work with every sunrise and sunset? Or was his work the reason for it? Was it a combination of both?

Then again, one must add to all of the above the fact that the Kirkland was not…exactly the most sociable human being. Or the kindest. Or the most considerate, or…or…

He could list his faults forever, but what was the point? _What _was the _point_? They all added up to the same conclusion, did they not?

Bluntly, it could be stated thus: Arthur had not one close friend; did he know others? Yes. And he did have long-distance friends--friends from the other nations with whom he would share a meeting or five with, but did any of them call on a regular basis? Did they write letters on a regular time-interval? No, not one. There _had _been one man that had done such a thing for a while; a blonde from the land of Deutschland, but…even his mail had stopped arriving.

In short: the Kirkland bloke had no one at this point in time.

Cautiously, nimble fingers flipped through the aged book; a table of contents, in old English, was present, but Arthur skipped it for the time being, browsing.

_Changing Nature…_

_Changing Weather…_

_Changing Matter…_

_Summoning Matter…-Summoning…!_

The section was short, but it was a start--it would be enough. Perhaps he could start now, read a tad-

_Oh, bugger…_

Well, that had been a good idea; but emerald eyes caught sight of the grandfather clock, a blatant reminder that the work day was far from done, and that his presence was needed elsewhere. After all, one did not want to be late to an appointment with the great Churchill, did they?

With care, Arthur closed the grimoire; although he could lock the office, and place the book in his large desk, until he was finished with the day, Arthur chose another path: Miss Dixon's tome was gingerly placed in the Kirkland's large satchel; despite it being filled with other papers, papers that Arthur had been taking home with him all this week, to do even further work at his residence, the book sidled in with an air of perfection.

From there, he could carry this! Or keep it at his side, no matter what the rest of the day brought! And in those rare, free, solitary moments…Who knew what he could quickly read and find out!

But haste was needed, for when Churchill requested his assistance, his presence, Arthur always arrived with gallant speed; he had little time to do anything else, save stand, sling the satchel over his shoulder and close the door in a hurry with his exit.

The grand part of it all was that Churchill's office was just down a hall, and around a corner. And even though Arthur had been doing this sort of activity for years and years, each time he came to knock upon that door, there was a twang of nervousness present in his stomach and soul.

"Enter, Arthur."

The younger Brit complied, pushing the door handle, and once the room came into the view, there was his boss, his back to the door; the smell, and eventually sight, of cigar smoke hit Arthur like a bullet--Churchill did have that as a daily habit, but it was still hard for Kirkland to go through sensory adaptation with it all.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

"Hmm, yes…" Winston turned, a hand coming up to rub his balding head, the other holding his cigar, which was eventually put out via an ashtray. Absently, large hands came to brush off a graying suit, as the round man seated himself behind his desk. Oddly enough, Churchill's desk was far from crowded with paperwork. One stack of about ten papers was off to the right, but other than that? Not one sheet was littered about, as it was on Arthur's desk. But the Kirkland could not bring this up--there were some subjects one cannot speak of, or in this case, argue about, with the Prime Minister of England.

"Please, be seated, Arthur."

"With…All due respect, Sir, I would rather stand."

Churchill let out a laugh, "You always say that. What, are you afraid to _sit _and speak?"

The sandy-blonde shook his head, "No, Sir. I just feel that it is more of a formality."

The elder did not respond, instead giving his companion a look of deep concentration, aging brown eyes locked onto a stock-still Kirkland.

It was some time before Winston spoke, and it was then with a smile on his face, "Heh. I suppose that is part of your personality, my boy. It always has been. I must admit, it is something I do like about you."

"Thank you Sir." A bow of the head was needed at this point, in Arthur's mind.

"Ah, Arthur…" A pause, then a shake of the head, "I brought you here for a few reasons. First, I must tell you that the election is not going well."

"…Oh?"

"Mm. The Conservative Party is losing, and there are only a few more days left in the polls."

"Oh, Sir, I am sure that-"

Churchill snorted, "That what? That I am exaggerating? No…It is not as if we are losing terribly, but we _are _losing. And I am afraid that, at least for awhile, I will no longer be Prime Minister. I figured I should be the one to break the news to my star assistant."

"B-But…" Arthur found his throat drying up; he had been keeping only minimal track of the nineteen-forty-five general election--his massive amount of recovery work had taken the time away from him, time that he would use to really listen and even assist; but Churchill had told him before not to worry, but now…

"Do not worry about your own position. I am sure that you will be far from gotten rid of, if I am replaced. Frankly, you may belong to the Conservative Party, but in all truths, I think any Prime Minister would be glad to have you. Do you realize how much work you do, and how well, Arthur? Many young men would have shirked away from your job…"

"Thank you Sir, but…"

"What?" Another righteous roar, "It will not be the same if you have to work for someone else? Ohoho, of course not! Of course it will not be the same, but what can you do. And I shall be around. Most likely, if I lose, I will be given some other position; that is what happens when you help save an entire nation in a World War, my son, heh. Do not fret, I am sure you shall see me around."

"But the polls are still in progress-"

"Bah, Kirkland, I know that my time left in office as Prime Minister, for now anyways, is short. I just figured I should warn you, and ease any fears. I shall personally make sure you are still put into a position, or at least keep your old job, if necessary."

"T-Thank you Sir…" Arthur really wished he could have said it more eloquently, but the shock of the subject matter was making it all too difficult.

"Now, I wish for you to attend a meeting this afternoon-a few of the other nations of Europe are sending representatives to speak of recovery plans for us all. I expect you shall see many of the regulars: Austria, France, possibly Hungary, but I know Italy will be sending their own representative."

"Well, Sir, Italy did join the Allies, so I am not surprised. But…what of-"

"Germany?" Another small snort, "Unfortunately, they will not be here, and I thank the Lord. Who knows what trouble they could cause. Besides, their government is in shambles, Hitler is dead, and there is no one to take over the reigns."

"Sir…I know it is not my place to say, probably, but…"

"Oh, out with it, Arthur."

The younger Briton cleared his throat, "Well, I do know someone in Germany-I brought up his name before, I believe. Ludwig-"

"If you are speaking of Ludwig Beilschmidt, he is exactly whom I am speaking of. I remembered the name, and henceforth tried to contact him. Apparently, he was one of the young men who tried to break away from Hitler, and the bastard did a number on the poor boy. Enough of a number to put the boy in the hospital. I…would rather not tell you the details. Unfortunately, he is partially traumatized from it all, and is not in the best of shape. He was not privy to some of Germany's own atrocities, so his mind is a tad shocked."

"…Ah, I had no idea…" Arthur's mouth had fallen open completely; well, this certainly explained why he had not received any letters from his German friend.

"He is doing well; better, according to the doctors, but he will be out of commission for awhile. Perhaps once he is in better shape, he could help the country recovery, perhaps he could take the reigns; but with his connections to Hitler, I am unsure, Arthur."

"He…He was--is--a good man, Sir. He only went along with Hitler because-"

Churchill raised a hand, silencing the blonde, "I know, boy; I know you and him have been friends for years, even before Adolf gained power. He is a good man, and I do trust your judgment. Hopefully, you can gain some sort of contact with him in the near future, at least as a friend or as a social calling."

"'Social calling', Sir? Are you insinuating that-"

"That you have no social life? Well, perhaps."

The downright cheeky smile hit Arthur like a mallet; Churchill was known for this type of behavior with his ally, but the topic was a tad unnerving to Arthur. Not that he disagreed with his boss, but still; the elder was insinuating many things…that just happened to, ironically, be true. But of courses, no one had to tell Winston that, now did they?

"W-With…all due respect, Sir, I believe I can handle my own social life."

"Of course, of course-"

"And I have been seriously busy with work, after all-" Arthur hastily interrupted; the words were just flowing out, he had not meant to say them--and, sadly, they continued to flow.

"Why, yes, I know-"

"And people are relying on me for so much, and-"

"Yes, Arthur, I-"

"And the majority of them just do not understand where I am coming from! They think, 'Oh, he is such a wonderful man' and just leave it at that! I do not know if they are intimidated, or just fear me-"

"Arthur…"

"Maybe I should just try a little more, but then _why _should I have to try? I'm a bloody political figure, am I not, Sir? Should not they try with me? Should not they make the first moves?"

"Arthur-"

"Perhaps I should cut down on the alcohol, Sir? I do drink quite heavily, but…Oh! That should not matter! People should just actually _talk _to me, for once. And not think I am such a bastard, or whatever they think. Certainly, there cannot be that much wrong with me?"

"Arthur-"

"Maybe I swear too much and scare-"

"ARTHUR."

The twenty-three year old jumped, and his face heated up immediately, "Ah…Oh, Sir, I must apologize…I, um…"

"Got a tad carried away? Haha, Arthur relax--seriously, my son, relax. We are doing great things here, but I think you get too carried away. Yes, you have a lot of work, but…have you ever thought about just loosening up your muscles once and a while? As in, not stay at your desk until the wee hours of the night?"

"There is so much to do, though, Sir…"

"Yes, there is. England and the United Kingdom as a whole are in ruins, and it is up to us, the politicians, to fix it. No one else can really do it, I am afraid. Nevertheless, I am holding you up, you must hurry on your way to the meeting. It is in Room A, down on the first floor, and it should be starting…" Churchill paused, taking out his golden pocket watch, "Fifteen minutes. Go along then, Arthur. I shall most likely see you before the day ends."

The Kirkland gave a small nod, and turned towards the door; but before he could exit, Winston called out,

"Oh, Arthur?"

"Yes, Sir?" Jade orbs focused on the aged Englishman, as a lanky body turned out of respect to face the Prime Minister.

"I was just also going to mention…That, well, I do have high hopes for you. Whether our party loses or wins within the week…"

"…Sir?" There was obviously more on the elder's mind, and Arthur could not help but probe.

"I was just going to say that I hope you decide to…put yourself up in the next election, Arthur."

Eyes blinked, and the Kirkland bloke was sure that if he had been holding any item, it would have fallen to the floor.

"…What do you mean, Sir?" _Surely, he could not be recommending that I…_

"I mean that…in nineteen-fifty…I hope you put yourself up on the ticket for the Conservative Party--that you go into an election as a Prime Minister candidate."

Now, there were some rumors going around that Winston Churchill was going bloody bonkers after all the chaos that had been World War II; and in Arthur's mind, this statement could just assist to those rumors.

"S-Sir?! I am only twenty-three, how could I-"

"_How_? With the Party's help, of course, including mine. Arthur, you have great potential, and I can see you becoming one of England's finest Prime Ministers. And in a short amount of time; you have a head for this world, you are actually stable-minded, and you think of the _people_. Not yourself, that is rare in this world. And though I may have been joking about finding you a social life, it is that lack of a social life that has gotten you this far, in a way. You focus on the job that needs to be done, instead of your own pleasures or needs. Although that is a tad unhealthy, and I do recommend you relax more, you have done so well…so amazingly well…that I could gladly put you in as my replacement, if I was still to be in office. But, if not…you would definitely turn into a fine Prime Minister."

"…" Arthur knew he looked like an idiot; but his expression was comprised of such shell-shock, it was hard to be called anything else other than idiot, or fool, or 'weird-guy-who-probably-drinks-too-much'. The idea of becoming Prime Minister had occurred to Arthur, but being told that he was to be ready for said position soon, and by the current PM, well…That was just the icing on the metaphoric cake.

"S-Sir…" It was all he could say; there really was nothing else that could be said, either.

"In five years, you will be most assuredly ready to become England's leader, Arthur---and his Majesty would be most gloriously overjoyed to have you on his side."

"T-The King?" Now there was a man Arthur could spend time with, discuss the world, the people; there was an ally--and friend--the blonde would be ecstatic to have. _The _King George the VI…Perhaps…Perhaps indeed…

"Yes. Who knows, I could even mention your name to our dear King. And I know his Elizabeth had spoken of you; a dear lass, yes…Anyway, go on!" Churchill shooed him in a friendly manner, hand waving lazily, "You shall be late if I keep babbling on like the old man I am, haha."

"Ah, yes, yes, thank you Sir…" Arthur gave another cordial bow, hurrying out of the room, nearly forgetting to shut the office door behind him, and he would have, had the Prime Minister not shouted his name curtly, ending with a laugh, of course.

Normally, Arthur took the elevator, but there was so much adrenaline coursing through his ruby-red veins, that the stairs called to him; the conversation had left so many ideas in his young head, and such wonderful prosperities were blossoming…Meeting the King and his wife would be just the tip of the iceberg; to be the next Prime Minister in the election, that would be…that would be a dream come true!

He had always imagined himself standing on a balcony, waving to a beautiful and excited crowd, a crowd that was shouting his name, waving the nation's flag; he had been on such a balcony before, but the people had been shouting someone else's name, the majority of the time it was Churchill's. But maybe…just maybe he could be the center of their attention. Why not? He was smart, clever, and he hid his negative traits quite well…

…Sure, there was no one--no human--to share this joy with; the other nations would just blow it off if he brought it up at the meeting that was just a few minutes away…

…Well, maybe the creature he was to summon soon enough would be happy for him. Sure, it would not talk back, but any mythological creature could express emotion.

Out of security measures, the Kirkland's hand touched the bag still over his shoulder, bumping against his hip as he traversed down the sets of stairs; yes, Leatrice's grimoire was still present, waiting for him to utilize its full potential.

It would have to wait though, he knew; as the final steps were descended, Arthur's clean and forever pristine hands came up to fix his semi-disheveled tresses, and straightened his dark, pine green tie, matching his classically, always-worn, green suit. If there was one thing the Kirkland bloke was not, it was a man who concerned himself with the latest fashions. He wished to always look presentable, but he needed not the current styles. His green 'uniform' was all that was needed.

The doors were there, right there, and in a way, Arthur wondered if his future was right there, too…That maybe, after years of work, he could actually get somewhere other than the office that was next to the Prime Minister…Not that there was much farther than that, but there was a step or two farther than that…

And maybe said step was only a few _other _steps away…

* * *

With any luck, Arthur wished silently, if he was Prime Minister, he could choose not to come to these meetings; he could send someone else…maybe Gregory. That boy could use some strict structure, it would get rid of his stuttering issues, along with his impatience.

Then again, Arthur was not having much patience, either. This 'recovery ideas' meeting was just a sham; it consisted mainly of the two Italian representatives (Some bastard should have warned him about there being two of them…), who were new to these meetings, either A) giggling and squealing about pasta, and telling the girl Elizaveta, Hungary's political representative, how 'pretty she was today', or B) squabbling with the Spaniard, and calling the French representative a 'Lying, perverted bastard'.

_Well, he is right about the perverted part…_

It was true; the blonde could feel Francis Bonnefoy's stare from across the olden table, and it was an unnerving stare--Arthur wondered if he should have started carrying around pepper spray, or at least some spice of the sort.

The meeting conceded with little completed, thanks to the Italians, but there was to be another one next Monday, seven days from now; Arthur slyly checked his watch, knowing for sure that the meeting had gone on for hours, and yes, his watch confirmed it: the current time was ten past five, and the setting sun was just beginning to shine through the large Manchester hall, the English sky alight with what could have been called flames--a bad metaphor, concerning what had just ended, after all.

Goodbyes were actually lengthy, this time around; normally, in the meetings, much was said and done, and hands were shaken, perhaps with some small conversations decorating the goodbyes. Here, though, the one Italian--Feliciano, that was his name, yes?--was kissing goodbye every single person, and the Englishman knew he had to retreat; for he hated awkward moments, and that surely would have been one.

Slyly, while no one was looking, Arthur turned on his heels, stepping out of the meeting hall, and he mutely breathed a sigh of relief. He had grabbed his bag just before, so there was no need to return for that--the Kirkland did have a good memory, which was another trait that had helped his career.

It seemed a lucky break; no one had spotted him, running after him, and-

"_Mon ami_? Ah, Arthur, did you just think you could sneak off? That is horrible, _oui_?"

Arthur felt his lower lip twitch in agitation, and his thick eyebrows knitted in disgust; if anyone had to notice him leaving, why could it not have been Roderich from Austria? Or Elizaveta? At least they never glanced at him like he was man-candy…And they would never grip his arm like a steel-door.

"Ah…Francis…You are well, I take it? How is Charles de Gaulle?"

The Frenchmen smiled, "He is well, Arthur. Now, now, why the rush to leave? Surely, you wish to chat with us? Or at least _moi_?"

_I would rather bathe in horse manure, you sod…_

"I would rather not, for I am quite busy, Francis, and I need to return to-"

"Your home? Why, is it not lonely at your home, _mon cher_?"

"I do not think that is any of your business, Francis…"

The brighter-haired blonde sighed dramatically, "Oh, my little stubborn Englishman…How long have we been in contact and working with one another? Hm?"

"Two years." _Do not remind me, you bastard…You have been looking as if you wish to sodomize me from day one…_

"Ah, yes…two wonderful years, would you not agree?"

"…Sure." _Sure, let us just say that I agree so you can GO…_

"And how much time have you spent with me?"

Arthur was about to spit out a seething remark, for his patience was starting to wear thin, and he was certainly tired of being cordial; not to mention, the day had been far too long for a normally-simple Monday routine. And in all frankness, he hated this man. And had even expressed it to his boss, but had Churchill done anything about it? Far from it; the man had simply told Arthur that in politics, you were going to run across people you absolutely loathe, but you had to get along with them, at least at a basest level. Besides, the United Kingdom--England especially, not just Ireland and the others--needed a good relationship with France, and Francis Bonnefoy had the best connections. De Gaulle was going places in the French community--a French general, statesmen, and possibly, even soon enough, a sort of French Prime Minister. With any luck, that one would get a…a bloody airport named after him!

But relations aside--when a man looks at you like that for two years, and you have expressed it decently enough that you are not interested…well, you have to draw the line somewhere, yes?

But before Arthur could give a biting statement, the French one held up his hand, "Ah, do not answer. For the answer is none, my dear Arthur."

"Oh? Really? For here, I was going to say 'too much'…" Oh, that biting remark came out anyway, it seems…

Francis' eyes darkened, and the soft gaze transformed into a glare, "My, my, Arthur…why on Earth would you say that?"

"Why do you think?"

"Oh, _mon ami-"_

"Do not 'mon ami' me, Francis. I am sick of…of your little pet names!" Oh, he was on a roll--hopefully Winston would not hear of this…

"But Arthur, I call everyone that-" Francis' darkened expression magically--and instantly--transformed into one of perfect innocence.

"And you look as if you _want _them? In…In an inappropriate manner for those who work for the Prime Ministers of some of the most powerful nations?"

"Ah, you are saying that I am attracted to you? Why, of course the answer is yes."

Arthur's face became a painting of confusion; clearly, he had not pictured Francis confessing it so blatantly.

"W-Well…I figured that, but have I not made it clear that I am not interested?! Frankly, Francis, I _ignore _you."

"Ah, you try, you try. I know you do not speak to me much, and you certainly do try to avoid my presence, but even you cannot resist looking at me."

"I do that when _you _are looking at _me_, you perverted Frenchman!"

"Mm, of course, of course…" A cocky smile plastered itself on Francis' face, "My dear Arthur, you wish to ignore me, but you cannot. Really, I think you are attracted to me more than you want to admit."

"If I ever become attracted to you, remind me to stab myself through the heart, please."

The brighter-blonde scoffed, "What a thing to say! Arthur, really, why must you say all this?"

"Because it finally needs to be said; I am…I am sick of worrying if you are going to molest me at the next meeting!" Arthur was livid at this point; he could feel his face heat up with rage, and his eyes were squinting with utter disdain.

"Oh, so you _want _to be molested? I was unsure if such lewd thoughts went through your pretty head, _mon ami_…"

"I am human, Francis. I too want love, and even sex, from time to time. But I do not have thoughts of molestation!"

"Mmhm, sure, sure my little croissant. But really, Arthur, I think you have me all wrong! Just because I find you attractive does not mean that I wish to bed you on our first date."

Now it was Arthur's turn to make a snorting nose, "And what gives you the idea that I would go on a _date _with you?"

"Ah, you pain me, Arthur. Really, I think we get along quite well-"

"What _universe _are you _from_? I never speak to you for a reason, you bloody bastard!"

Francis was not deterred by the Englishman's reaction, and went on with, "And I think you would enjoy my company. And I know you think I am a beautiful man, mon cher."

"Again, I ask: What universe are you FROM? Are…Are you a damn Martian?!"

"No, but the women and men of the world say that…heh, an experience with me is 'out of this world'." While the Frenchman laughed at his own, albeit horrid, joke, Arthur resisted the urge to put his head through a wall.

"Yes, yes, I am leaving now, so let go of my arm, Francis. And I shall bid you a good day-"

But Francis did not release him, even when Arthur tried to tug himself free; no, instead, the older and taller blonde gave a tug, and the Brit found himself forced even closer to the Bonnefoy; chests touched, but that did not scare the Kirkland as much as the downright malevolent gleam in Francis' eyes did.

"You…cannot hide from me…My dear Arthur, we will be together one day, you can count on it…"

"A-Ah…" For once, Arthur was actually scared of the French male; not just scared of being groped or assaulted in a sexual manner, but actually scared for something more…He had always believed Francis to just be a pervert that needed lecturing, but this…this was much, much more…

"There is nothing to be afraid of, mon cher…I will take care good care of you-"

"Y-You sound obsessed…" The Briton could not help the whispered phrase that escaped his lips that felt all too dry at this point in time.

Francis let out a soft laugh, his own voice having gone from boisterous to beautifully quiet in seconds, "Maybe I am, Arthur…I hope you realize that I would do _anything _to be with you, and soon, you will see that us being together would be the best for us--and our nations and our bosses."

"Leave the Prime Ministers out of this, you sod." The way that the taller male had said 'I would do anything for you' scared the blooming daylights out of the Englishman, and when courage was needed, Arthur's mind usually took on a fighting tone.

"Tsk tsk…You are lucky you are cute when angry, Arthur-"

"ENOUGH of this nonsense, Francis!" This was it, he had had enough. Plain and simple, this…this little conversation was ending _now_, "Get it through your thick skull that this sort of activity will lessen my liking of you, if it existed at all! Frankly, I find you to be a pompous, ignorant man, that gives a bad name to the French in general! You think you can bed whomever you wish, by doing whatever you wish, but I shall tell you now: The world does NOT work like such! And you will never have me, you idiotic fool. I am far from interested in you, no matter what dribble you spout that says otherwise. I suggest you let go of whatever crusade you have to 'woo' me, understood?"

"…" Silence echoed in the hall, as the pair of men just shot glares of pure wrath and hatred, and said silence was not broken until Francis leaned closer, his warm breath tickling across the Briton's face,

"We shall see if you say those same words soon, Arthur. For I have done many things to get where I am today, many things indeed. Some good, some not so good. But they have lead me here, and have lead me to you. And I will reach my goal, and not be driven off my goal just because you decide to be…be all noble or whatever you wish to call it. I was not asking much, you know."

"No, you were. You most certainly were. You may not think you were, but you were; you 'said' you wanted a simple date, but I am no simpleton, you git. I know you wanted more. And I do not like the way you are asking said things, either. And I hope you realize that I am not a goal that can be obtained-"

"Ah, but Arthur…you _are _a goal. A goal to…to many, I believe."

"And what does that mean?!"

But Francis only gave a chuckle, and pushed the younger one away, "Now now, I mean nothing by it. Just…Just letting off some steam, my little English crumpet. But I will be seeing you soon, Arthur. And we will be having that date, you can count on it. I have made sure of it so far, so what should stop me now? You shall not certainly stop me-"

"You are twisted. Do you even realize what you are saying?"

"Ah, but I am in love, can you help that?"

"Love? Hah! Pounding me into the mattress is far from love, Francis. Perhaps you have a tiny infatuation, a tiny…'crush', but that will get you nowhere."

At this point, Arthur had turned on his heels, and was heading for the door out of the building, when Francis' voice stopped him, the older human stating plainly,"Do you wish to make a bet upon that, _mon cher_?"

Maybe it was the way Francis had said it; the sickeningly sweet, yet drenched underneath with evil, way his voice had rung out in the hall. Emerald eyes had slowly turned, gazing at the man that was now a few feet away, and internally, Arthur shivered. There was something just…just not right here. For the past two years, Francis seemed like that 'crazy uncle' that had a few perverted tendencies--except Francis was a bit more handsome than the normal 'uncles'. But here…here he sounded…almost _demonic_. As if Arthur would be the only one he would now be satisfied with…

Eyes locked, and another shiver shot up the Kirkland bloke's spine; what on Earth did Francis mean by he had done some not so good things…? That thought alone scared the twenty-three year old, and it was enough to quicken Arthur's footsteps after a moment, once he had been able to break the stare with the French one.

Arthur would regret not stepping up, and speaking to Francis further--for the awful, terrible, terrible things the Frenchman had done would come to nearly ruin multiple lives, including Arthur's own…

But all the Englishman could think of was getting in his small, brown car, and getting on the road as fast as possible; whereas his day had started out dandy and lucky, it was turning nightmarish--he was sure Francis' words would haunt him for some time, and he could only pray that that bastard lost his job, somehow.

The car felt stuffy, and overbearing; it felt haunted, as Arthur felt himself speed up, trying to escape the scaring and scarring episode that had just occurred. There just…seemed to be much more to what Francis was spouting, and the Kirkland was fighting every urge to go back and find out what those true thoughts were, and why they there under the surface, hidden there. For when something is hidden, it is usually for a _reason_.

Why did it seem that Francis knew something that Arthur did not…? Oh, and Arthur hated not knowing something--especially when it was something important.

_Breathe, Arthur, breathe…you are probably just…o-overreacting…? That git probably just…just drank too much wine…Yes, yes, that is it…_

_Think of something else, think of…think of…think of work! And…And…_

Instincts kick in, and the British male reached out to touch the bag on the passenger seat; yes, it was still there, he could feel the thick, leathery spine. It was calling to him, and Arthur would answer it--out of the longing for solace. There was chaos all around him, what with the election, and the Frenchman, and the job as a whole…And the War, who could forget that? How they had all nearly died--Thank God for the other Allies, for China, for Russia, for _America_…

America…Brows knitted in confusion; did he not have…some upcoming business with the United States? He could not recall at the moment, and that was quite irksome. It was a vague idea; Arthur believed someone somewhere might have told him that he was to talk with…with some American, but…no details were coming forth. Ah, no matter--he would speak with his boss (_whoever _that would be once the week was done) about such a thing, or perhaps if he could talk to Churchill before the election was all said and done…

_No, no…just leave it all behind for now…_

It was a repeated mantra, it could have been his motto if the Kirkland put it actually into use; even when he would arrive home daily, he could never leave his work behind---politicians rarely do. For their work _is _their home; it is their home_land_…

The car stopped eventually, puttering and wheezing; it was an old, tiny thing, but Arthur cherished it--his father had given it to him right before his passing, and as long as it still ran, that was all the Briton needed.

The corner brownstone home was just like the car--elderly, petite, and reliable. With only a single bedroom, a demure kitchen, a sensible living room, a clean bathroom, and a sturdy attic, it was also all that was needed. Arthur was not one for excess, and this little 'cottage' was downright perfect. Churchill had told him time and time again that he could get him a larger home, something more suiting the assistant to the Prime Minister, but Arthur always turned him down.

Not a single light shone as he opened the door, which was traditional. And as his footsteps passed over the threshold, a bolt of an unusual emotion struck the British human:

Loneliness.

The house was indeed suitable for one person, but one more _could _fit in there. And now that both Churchill and Francis had brought up how much of an isolated man he was, Arthur could feel it even more--to the point where the solitude was hard to ignore. He had been ignoring it for years, ever since his parents had died in the boat wreck on the lake…

A languid sigh fell from Arthur's lips as a kerosene lamp was lit, a free hand coming to embrace it; during the night, Arthur preferred lamps and candles, for the electricity was still shaky in Manchester. He would have to get the electricity reinstated to perfection soon enough…

The couch was a welcoming cushion, the lamp placed on the glass-topped coffee table in front of the tartan piece of furniture. Sadly, said couch reminded Arthur further of his job--there were stray plans and pieces of paper scattered on a plethora of inches of softy cushion.

In a fit of frustration, the blonde snarled, hand flying out and knocking a majority of the papers off the couch, flying about until scattering onto the wooden floor; now there was enough room for the man to lie fully across the couch, and he did so, a hand running down his face out of despair.

"Get your act together, Kirkland…" He was known to speak aloud to himself in times like this…Was it what they had said? That he had no really companions? And was it the realization that they were _right_…? Or was it more causing him agony? Was it the fact that so much was _changing_…? That he may no longer be assisting Churchill…? Or that England was forever changed by the bombings…?

He could have whimpered, he could have cried, but Arthur Kirkland was stronger than that; he had been taught to never cry in times like this, that he had to hold his head high, that it was time to act, not whine like a baby…

Act…He had been initiating actions for so long, though…So when did it end…? Never?

_Oh great, now you are depressed, you idiot…You know you will be able to cure your loneliness soon…_

Well, that was true; the satchel had been placed right next to the couch, and a hand slowly flipped open the flap, and pulled out the grimoire.

It really was a beautiful text; Old English aplenty, and Leatrice seemed to know her occult quite well--she had to, if this was only 'volume one'.

But he was so tired…His mind had been tried today; it was tried everyday, but…but today…was today a breaking point, or just an extra-trying day…?

Lazily, Arthur flipped open the tome, the scripted pages dancing under sleepy fingers; he could become this too, this…this type of occultist--it would take more work…or would it?

Perhaps deep down, because of his natural love for all things occult, Arthur would become a natural occultist?

Pictures of creatures danced across weary jade orbs; demons and angels were in the mix too, and for a spilt second, Arthur wondered if he should summon an angel--after all, that was certainly needed at this point and time, by many, many persons.

He settled back further--the urge to get up and do a spell now was warring with his worn-out mind; his brain was pressuring him, saying that in order to vanquish the loneliness, he needed to bring forth a friend. And that it was time to do it now…

But still-shoe-covered feet would not move; and a head fell back against a pillow, nestling into it; it had to be only nearly six o' clock-- seven at the most--but he was so, so tired…

So, so tired…

Of _everything_…

* * *

_There it was again--the same nightmare, happening so often--too often. Arthur could have told it over and over again, a never-ending story…_

_A storm, brewing on the sea; a boat, with its perfect sails, snowy-colored; a woman, on the deck, outstretching her hand, blonde tresses blowing back against the harsh breeze. A man, of the same hair, standing by her side, holding her petite waist, looking out to the water as well. Aeolus was enraged, and no mortal was going to stop him now._

"_MUM…! DAD...!"_

_He could still remember reaching out while standing on the town's deck, but here, he was held back by shadowy hands belonging to Things not meant for mortal eyes; in real life, only Arthur had held himself back, watching as the beloved ship, carrying both his parents, just as it was coming into port, was struck down by lightning and waves, hellfire springing up all around._

"_MUM, DAD…!"_

_He knew he should have dived into the water, and swimmed, and try to help the ship--he also knew he should have stopped his parents from spending the day out at sea; it had just been a small outing for the two of them, a 'date' of sorts, but it had killed them both. Without mercy, Zeus--the Gods--had struck them down; only Arthur had been spared, but even now, sometimes he wished he had been taken too…The guilt sometimes just…became too much…_

_But he had only been seventeen at the time…! What could he have done…? _

"_You could have tried to save them, you know…" That was the voice said, each time the nightmare came up in his subconscious…_

_And each time, he would struggle against the black claws, his own hands clawing at the rain, the air, trying his damn best to get out to the boat, as it sank into the depths of the lake…_

…_A flash, a flash of light…_

_This…now, THIS was a new part of the dream that Arthur had never experienced before…_

_A voice, a crystal clear voice, rang out, stating coldly,_

"_You are lonely for a reason, Arthur…"_

_A body was falling into the water…And it was neither Alice Kirkland or Henry Kirkland's…_

…_It was masculine yes, but larger than Henry had been…_

"_You are lonely for a reason, Arthur…"A hand outstretched itself, begging for its master to be saved…_

"…_So what are you going to do about it…?"_

_Screams echoed out--a trio; and Arthur, poor, pitiful Arthur, could only recognize two…_

"_It is time you do something about it, Arthur…"_

_He remained on the deck, the images flashing before his eyes; he paid no heed to the encroaching clouds above…_

"_It…is time…"_

_And a lighting bolt fell down, striking down a seventeen year old boy, a boy who used to love the sea, who used to love all of humanity's parts…_

* * *

He awoke upright, in seconds, drenched in a cold sweat; he sat up so quickly, that Leatrice Dixon's grimoire collapsed onto the floor.

Arthur remained there, panting, hands shaking--for a while there, he had felt that the nightmares were ceasing in intensity; that was, until this one.

But the words that had come forth…They were true…

It was time he did something about it…Only he could cure his problems, no one else could do it for him…

Blinking rapidly, hands that still shook grabbed the tome, picking it up with much haste; like a jackrabbit, the blonde leaped off the couch, pounding up the stairs; he did not care who it was, or what it was---he was going to summon a creature whom he could call friend.

Eyes darted to the wall---it was ten minutes to midnight, according to the hanging clock, its pendulum ticking out a rhythm of perfection.

Time did not matter--it was time for changes, that was all that _did _matter.

* * *

His attic had been prepared for this situation; candles, jars full off odds-and-ends, plants, and other small books lined the shelves. Chalk had been grabbed out from the tiny, porcelain pot it was usually in, and with hurrying hands, Arthur drew the pentagram that was outlined in Leatrice's book on the attic's floorboards.

It would be a Puca, that was all--a small, shape-shifting, animal-creature, that was all he needed. Someone to talk to…And hey, if things did not work out, he could always send it back, yes?

Candles were lit with aged matches, and then placed on all points of the star, and four around the circle--indicating the cardinal directions--just as Leatrice instructed. Herbs of varying quality and quantity rained down upon the center of the ancient symbol, and Arthur felt his breath speed up--his excitement was escalating, and he continued to hurry…

It was his rush that would be his downfall, in the end…

Five minutes to midnight…

With rushing moves, Arthur ran to his other pots, glancing down at the grimoire still in his hands; the cloak he had put on was just decoration, and it was there just to make him feel even more powerful…Well, Arthur _did _sometimes have a shaky self-esteem, but that was okay, yes…? And understandable…?

Flowers were thrown in to the center, along with a few tiny rat bones; was that all was needed? Yes, yes…

Three minutes to midnight…

After taking a deep breath, Arthur strode to the circle, standing in front of the southern candle, and after closing his eyes for a silent prayer, they opened once more, to read the needed chant…

"Oh spirits, hear thy prayers…"

A breeze picked up outside; the rickety attic window lurched and creaked, but Arthur would not be deterred…

"…Grant thy an audience with the shape-shifter of legends…"

Two minutes to midnight…

"…Holy beast, come to me…" His hand outstretched itself, palm facing the circle, "Come and hear my requests, and serve me well…Thou shall be servant, thy shall be master…"

_And friend…_

"Let thou come forth! Show unto the mortal eyes a soul, a spirit, a creature powerful!"

One minute to midnight…The chimes were about to ring…

And Arthur was about to wish that he had read all of the instructions in the 'Summoning Matter' chapter…

"Thy shall strike a bargain of souls unto us both! We shall be victorious in whatever quests we decide to go forth upon!"

The final words to come were of a language unknown to normal man; Arthur shouted the magical words, the syllables dancing off his tongue,

"Es-Te, Ma-Ta, Do-cull, For-Ta, ES-TE!"

The moment the last sound dropped from his tongue…

The clock struck midnight…

…And the wind that had existed outside silenced itself with the drop of a dime.

…Nothing, nothing occurred--there was a silence, but it was the most horrendous silence Arthur had ever experienced. It was as if there was something there that was the opposite of sound, but…it was as if it was not 'no sound'. It was as if there was something _more_…Anti-sound, in a way...

And then…a crackling sound erupted from the center of the pentagram; green eyes turned into the size of an owl's own orbs, once they caught sight of the electricity that was popping up from the star and circle. Blue bolts were fizzing everywhere, growing larger in size by the second.

"W-What…" The Kirkland glanced down at the book in his hands--there was no mentioning of this…

The blue lightning grew larger and larger by the second, and as the clock down below continued to chime, a bolt reached out, zapping Arthur on the left hand--the shock went through his entire nervous system, his mouth letting out a scream as he fell backwards, nearly knocking over a candle or two, which would have been an awful situation, but…

…The candles had been…put out…

W-When had that happened…?

The attic had darkened, save for the lightning coming from the symbol chalked onto the floorboards, and Arthur had been so shocked with the lightning coming forth, that he had paid the darkness no heed.

He was in much too awe to even care…

Crystal blue light now was coming forth, shining upwards, hitting the ceiling, coming from the floor; the electricity was still popping up, but striking nothing--only Arthur had been actually hit by it.

…And then…

Something more came up from the floor…

And it was _not _a Puca…

It was…a human hand…

_A human hand_…

It was crystal clear, too--Arthur could see it, but also see through it; it was as if the body part was…was made of _glass_…

The Kirkland's breath was escalating once more, but it was now not out of excitement--but pure, unfiltered, unadulterated fear…

Strong fingers were moving about as if they wished to grab onto something, but were failing; for a spilt-second, Arthur stupidly wondered if he should help, but deigned not to, choosing instead to stay where he was--sitting in a heap on the floor, watching the spectacle in front of him.

Eventually, the fingers were joined by another set of fingers--another hand. Both transparent hands changed into fists for a split second, and pounded on the floor--but the trick was, they went _through _the floorboards, and Arthur heard himself give a scream.

The electricity was picking up speed as the hands flattened themselves, and it seemed that…that whatever was trying to come through was doing just that: trying to come through, but having difficulty. But it must have figured something out, perhaps it was trying to push itself out of…out of the portal, and…

That had to be it, because a small shout, not from Arthur, hit the human's ears, as more of a body was revealed.

A human body…

_Oh dear God, what have I done…?_

The…The…Oh, hell, what _was _it…?

He would find out soon enough, but that did not matter at this point; the…'thing' was pulling itself up and out, and Arthur could see that the face was youthful, bespectacled, and had bangs; its expression the picture-perfect essence of determination, and the Briton even heard it swear,

"Damn it."

Its torso came up from the floor, and soon, the tall legs followed; it was evident that he (_HE_?) was taller than Arthur by a decent amount; the clothes (_CLOTHES_?) upon it were a shirt, a jacket, most likely a bomber's, and a pair of slacks and shoes--decently basic, but Arthur could not tell the colors of any part of the creature's body or attire, for he was all transparent and glassy--not just the body parts.

The thing groaned, situating itself on its knees, hands spread out, head staring downward, and Arthur knew he should have moved, he knew it. But he failed to, the shock of it all shutting off his muscles.

The lightning died down, as did the clock downstairs…It was twelve o' one, so there was no need for the electricity to exist any more.

But the creature did; it was just sitting there, sitting there and not moving, not speaking, not-

"Hey there!"

It had lifted its head, and it was smiling, actually _smiling_…

And Arthur's slack mouth could only return the greeting with one thing:

A scream that, most likely, was heard all across Manchester…

* * *

A/N: And there's chapter one! Told you guys that these would be long! : D

So, enjoyed it? Questions? Well, you know what to do :] I appreciate the feedback, guys, you all are amazing!

Oh, I'm falling in love with this story--Just how I am with 'Savior'. Hope you all enjoy what's to come! See you soon!


	3. Two: In Which Bonds Are Born

A/N: And here is chapter two! Enjoy, and thanks for all of the support! 8D Our dear Arthur gets many surprises this time around, hehehe…Not that he hasn't had enough or anything like that, right?

Song Inspiration:

- "Reverse this Curse", by Escape the Fate (Fits Arthur's anger quite well, in my mind XD Inspires later chapters, too)

- "I'll Be", by Reba McEntire (Inspires the semi-sweet ending of the chapter)

- "All the Things She Said", by Tatu

- "Broken", by Amy Lee and Seether

* * *

_While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped_

_Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,_

_And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing_

_Hopes of high talk with the departed dead._

_- PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, Hymn to Intellectual Beauty_

* * *

There are many things one must do when surprised: it is advised to remain calm, assess the situation with a rational mind, speak aloud if you need to, and remedy the 'surprise'.

Unfortunately, for Arthur Kirkland's sake, he did none of these steps--well, he did speak aloud, if one can consider consistently screaming as 'speaking'.

"Uh…?" The thing was obvious confused as to why the British one was just saying 'AHH' over and over, and it floated--_IT FLOATS?!-_-over towards the still-sprawled on the floor Kirkland, "Hey-"

"G-Get away!"

Oh, yes, Arthur was brave--when he wanted to be; and right about now, he really saw no point in even trying to act brave. Not when there was…was a…spirit standing right in front of him, a spirit that should not be there!

"Hey, look, I-"

"I-I said stand back! I…" Arthur crab-walked backwards, or at least gave a lame attempt at one anyway; shaking his head, the blonde miraculously found the energy (or bloody strength) to jump upwards, and get on his feet, hands out, palms facing the…thing (really, was there any better word for it at this point? Arthur thought not!), and after a moment of taking a deep breath, the political-headed man let out,

"I…I have…er…I have a candle, yes!" Rapidly, shaking fingers reached out, grabbing the candle, "And…And I know how to use it!"

"…Well, that is a good thing, I guess….Knowing how to light a candle-"

"I meant I would use it as a damn weapon if you come any closer!"

"…Uh…Sure…" The creature cocked its head, "But why would you?"

"Why would I?! What kind of question is THAT?"

"I mean, I'm supposed to be here, right? And do you have to scream? Sheesh…"

Arthur felt a twitch come forth upon his bushy eyebrow above his left eye, "D-Do…Do you think I would be screaming my bloody lungs out if I _wanted _you here?!"

"I dunno, I just met you! Who knows, that could be how you greet everyone--HEY!"

Arthur had heard enough, tossing the candle at the spirit with all his might, only to find out that it was futile, the object passed through the thing's body, colliding with the far wall, and shattering due to the strength of the throw; the Briton gasped, even more so when the creature in front of him gave a frown of disdain,

"Was that really necessary? All I did was say 'Hey there', and you started flipping out-"

"G-Get away! _GO _away!"

"Uh, well…Again, I ask: Aren't I supposed to be here?" The specter floated even closer, thoughtful eyes boring down into the shaking Brit, a finger coming up to touch transparent lips in a thoughtful manner "Huh, you look really young to be a magician. Aren't they like…old?"

"W-What?"

"Well, I was summoned, right? And you did it, right? So you have to be a magician."

"I…I am not a magician! And I did _not _summon you; _you _just popped up from nowhere, you…you…whatever the hell you are!"

"Huh…?" The specter scratched its head, the hand moving through tresses at a slow, even pace, "Well…That's interesting." A pause, then "Are you a wizard?"

"What?! NO!"

"Yeah, you don't have a beard. Wizards have beards."

Before Arthur could utter a phrase that consisted mainly of the words, 'What are you on about, you freaky thing from the Netherworld?', the spirit spoke first,

"Yeah, you are a magician. Just a really, really lame one, if you didn't mean to summon me.""

I am NOT a magician! I am a…an occultist. That is the correct and formal term." The British male tried to ignore the 'lame' remark--but it stung nonetheless, for it was not just partly true--it was wholly true.

"A occu-what-a-what?"

"Never mind…" The Kirkland was starting to wonder if he was not just dealing with a ghost, but a _stupid _ghost--that was doubly worse.

"So, uh…Hi!"

And apparently this ghost also had the attention-span of a gnat. Lovely.

Arthur found his jaw dropping, and he could only blink confusedly at that phrase; he retaliated quickly, for the wanting of answers was driving him insane,

"H-Hi?!"

"Yeah! So, uh…I'm Alfred, nice to meet--Okay, was it really necessary to throw the _book _at me?"

"Yes, quite necessary! I did not summon you, so shoo! SHOO!"

"Shoo? That's a really girly thing for a man to say, don't you think? And uh…Heh, you said you're an…occu-thingy, right?"

"Yes. I am an occultist. What OF it, you whelp?"

"Whelp? Sounds like a type of fish…"Arthur grimaced; it was obvious that whatever this creature was, it was not British. It sounded…if anything, it sounded…_American_. Well, that would explain a lot, would it not?

"It is not a type of-"

"So, okay, you know magic, right?"

Well, it was a rude creature, if anything; how dare it interrupt him! If it was human, and if Arthur was sure his touch would be felt, the spirit would have already been smacked.

"In a way, yes…That is what being an occultist concerns, you moron."

"Well, then you suck at it, old man."

"WHAT?!" And had not this spirit just said he was too _young_?

"Check the book." The spirit shrugged lamely, "You obviously didn't read everything."

"What on Earth are you blabbering about?"

"Just check the book, 'kay? I know these things. A ghost has to."

"…So you _are _a ghost."

"Well, I ain't no rabbit or anything like that, haha!" The thing had a bubbly laugh, boisterous and loud, and Arthur supposed that on the other side of the pond, it was normal to laugh like such when it was after midnight.

"What do you mean, 'you know these things'? What things?"

"Huh?" The specter floated up higher, criss-crossing its legs as if it was a child, "Well, there are rules, I hope you know that."

"Of course there are rules! There are rules to everything! And of course there are rules to magic. Such as you must draw the symbols properly, and have the right ingredients-"

"I meant that there are rules involving 'things' like me, old man. Ghosts. Just…Just look in the book already, okay? You obviously have no idea what to do, so I guess I have to tell you something."

"…Oh, how kind of you, specter-from-Hell-"

"HEY!"

"Oh, just shut up and pout to the ceiling, wanker."

"Wanker…Hehe, is that one of those sex terms used in…this place?"

"…No. And 'this place' is the United Kingdom, you idiot--As in, Great Britain, in case you did not know where the United Kingdom was."

"Hey, I-!" The ghost paused; in all truths, he did not know where the United Kingdom was, and in further truths, he had failed his fifth grade geography class--twice. But what do you expect from a boy who realized at the age of ten that the world consisted of two things: The United States, and Everywhere Else? Also, at that age, the spirit named Alfred had found out that there were better things in life than studying old, dusty maps--like…like reading about real men and women who did heroic deeds, not geographers, who always turned out to be boring, old fuddy-duddies.

"Yes, you what?"

"Er...Nothing. Are you going to read the book yet? Just look, c'mon. It'll clear this up."

"You obviously know what is going on here, yes?" The creature nodded in reply, causing Arthur to continue, "Then why don't you just tell me?"

The specter shrugged, "'Cause I can't."

"Let me guess: Another 'rule'?"

"Hehe, you're pretty smart…" A pause, then, "Hey, what's your name? You never told me-"

"You do not need to know that, Ghost." The blonde stated tartly, "You will be gone soon enough, so my name need not be stated."T

he spirit shrugged its shoulders once more, "If you think so…But I suggest you look in the book you were nice enough to throw at me."

Arthur found himself huffing in annoyance, "Will it get you to shut up?"

"Maybe!"

"…"

"You know, you really, really pout a lot. A lot. Have you even smiled once since I came?"

"I smile when there is something to smile about, twat."

"…Twat? Hey, is that another insul-"

The Briton chose not to speak another word, feeling that it was time to shut this creature up and quickly; and even if the chance was only 'maybe' that it would occur, that was better than nothing. Swiftly, Arthur stepped around his ruined pentagram, the scuffed chalk signs, the turned over candles, the charred bones and herbs--all signs of a ruined trial of magic, and the green-eyed male tried to ignore it all, for they were clearly signs of weaknesses--and Arthur far from needed weaknesses.

"So where do I exactly look, and what do you want me to read, Ghost?" The book came into his hands, and Arthur regretted throwing the treasured tome against the wall the instant his orbs fell upon it; it was not badly damaged from the toss, but there were two scuff marks, and the spine's binding was torn, but it seemed decent enough.

"Uh…Well, you can call me Alfred-"

"Answer me, Ghost."

The spirit sighed, "Okay, okay…Look, I can't tell you where exactly…like, page number or whatever, but…just look in the summoning chapter or something."

Pages began to flip hurriedly, words flying by, only being half-absorbed by tired eyes; why, why did this…creature have to give him the run-around? Could he not just say what it was? It was obvious in Arthur's mind that something had gone wrong, and that…that thing knew, and was not saying! And that sort of annoyance was the type of annoyance that was known for turning the British male homicidal.

"So why can't you tell me more? This chapter is bloody long!"

"…" The ghost did not reply right away, choosing only to float closer to the bent-over, knees-digging-into-the-floorboards Arthur, "It's a rule on the Other Side, 's all. A rule that they tell us, and a rule we have to follow. Us Ghosts I mean-"

"Oh? So you _do _follow rules-"

"Hey! Look, I may not…You know what, never-mind. You're a…You're a…Damn, I don't know what you are, but you are _it_!"

"Oh, quiet down, you're giving me a headache, Ghost-"

"Can't you at least call me by my name?" The specter grumbled, "I was once just like you, you know."

"Ohohoho, you were never like me, boy, I can tell you that." Arthur retaliated, closing his eyes out of the sheer fact he wished to retain some form of sanity, "…Look, just-"

"What? Shut up? You keep telling me to do that!"

"Oh, will you just _shut_…" A growl, and then the Briton murmured, "Look. I'm tired, annoyed, and I have obviously failed at this somehow. This night has been a horrendous experience I need not repeat again. And your…your…talking…is doing nothing for my migraine. So please…A-Alfred, yes? Could you just…"

"…" The ghost stared, cocking his head to the side, "…Sorry…Yeah…I um…Okay, I sort of figured this…wasn't you wanted, heh. And then I really got it after you threw the book at me, hah…No biggie, I get it. But…you still need to know what happened, right? So…" Alfred paused, his body floating downward, falling enough to touch the floorboards; and as where it was predicted he would fall through the floor, instead the deceased's body came to sit perfectly next to the frazzled blonde, glassy feet planting themselves on the floor, legs stretching themselves out, "So…Look at the third page, again."

"…I thought you said-"

"I did; but…" A shrug, "I'm not always one for following the rules, old man, heh."

"I am _not _old, Ghost." Arthur murmured, his hands moving backwards, heading towards the beginning of the chapter, "Three?"

"Three."

"…You're not--Oh." Arthur halted his to-be-haughty interrogation, when the headlines on the page caught his eye:

_RULES OF YE OLD SUMMONING_

Oh…Well, it seemed that ghost was correct; and now the question was…how _did _Arthur miss _this_?

Emerald eyes floated over the words; they were the traditional woes to worry about: be 'wary of thy fire' that is used on candles, do not summon a creature bigger than your 'homey cottage'…

"I know all of this-"

"Keep going!" Alfred shouted, but in glee--actually with glee, how annoying; was he always cheerful in dire and despairing situations?--and the Briton noticed that the specter had scooted closer to the living human, a glasses-adorning head peering over a slumped shoulder.

"Oh, fine…Wait…Is…"A trembling finger pointed at the bottom line, and when Alfred silently nodded, and decided to float off, and away from the mortal male, Arthur felt a sinking feeling in his stomach; it was the last rule, so there could be no others to gaze upon, and orbs nervously began to read…

_WARNING FOR YE OLD __SANITY _(No one could ever say that Leatrice was humorless)_: Never conduct a summoning spell upon the Chime of Midnight, With Luna Shining in thy windows. Thou shall not receive the creature that is the desire of Yea Wishes, but An Undead Creature, a Spirit from Another Land, A Land Thou Shall One Day Enter. Thou Shall Become the Master of a Ghost--Permanently._

"…W-What…?" But there was more, and Arthur noticed keenly that the other in the room had gone mute.

_Thy Bond shall Be Master 'n Servant--In a Way. An Eternal bond--Unlike other Creatures, Spirits cannot return to the Other Side easily, or with a Reversal Spell. Only another Spell of High Caliber May Spare Thee of Thy Spirit's Wrath. A Spell That Cannot Easily Be Gained and Obtained._

…_Oh no…_

Arthur knew he was paler, that he looked sick, for he _felt _sick--his hands took on a clammy condition, his stomach rumbled with pain, and vomit and bile were edging up the back of his throat.

This…No, this could not be happening…

'Eternal' bond…? Servant and…Master…?!

"…A-Ah…"

"…" When Arthur turned to gaze upon his companion, the ghost was silent, floating in a standing position, eyes of transparent hue not glancing at the awed Kirkland, but the floor instead was his target--he could tell the human was far from pleased at his being here, and though Alfred was a man that had never worried about other's despairing at his presence, here…here it was a situation that was horrendous to have a displeased mortal. The way the man was staring at him, as if he was diseased…It was heartbreaking, in a way--He had been alone for so long…And it was personal, too, for...for Arthur...Arthur was...Would have been...Oh, nevermind, he could not think upon it...

…And nevertheless, he had to be strong--it was the ghost's persona; it was how he was: strong, powerful--called cocky, called boisterous and loud by his brother--but strong and proud and powerful nonetheless.

"Y-You…You're…You're not leaving, a-are you…?"

It was a futile question, and both males knew it; Alfred nodded, despite it, though, and the twenty-three year old politician let out a whine, a whine that deepened when Alfred murmured,

"Unless you know the spell--Oh…guess not…Hey, you don't have to bag your head against the floor--"

"No, but I WANT to bang my head against the floor, thank you very much!" And really, he was not hitting the boards that hard; just light, repetitive taps…very, very hard taps, but taps all still the same.

"…" But he ceased his actions after some moments, a silence of awkward proportions filling up the attic like a smelly smog; the spirit could only stare and watch as Arthur seated himself upright, his knees digging into the floor, hands fisted into slacks tightly.

"Well…You never told me your name, so…so what's your name?"

The Kirkland sent a glare at the boy, a grimace that could have made Ares envious of the wrath it held.

"Aw, what's the harm?" Alfred continued with, giving off a grin that was annoyingly sweet, and diabolically smug, or at least in Arthur's mind, and the man knew that if he could, he would smack that ghostly bastard's face--repeatedly.

"…Fine. Arthur. Arthur Kirkland, happy?"

"Yep! Nice to meet you Arty-"

"NO. No, _NO _Arty!" He knew he should have kept his mouth shut, he KNEW it!

"Aw, come on…Hey, what'cha doing?"

Whether it was being called 'Arty', or whether it was the entire ordeal catching up to him, the Briton found himself hopping to his feet, grabbing a candle, digging in his pocket for a spare match, and lighting the object; not a second later did the man march across the floor, actually stepping through the surprised specter, and begin to descend the stairs.

"Hey, where're you going?"

"To bed, what else?" _Maybe if I am lucky, this is all just a horrible dream--a nightmare where I must slumber in order to really awaken…_

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. I know you are a ghost, but if you remember correctly, the rest of us have to sleep." The blasted creature was following him; wonderful, just wonderful. The stairs creaked like angry sirens under Arthur's stomps, as he descended with harsher steps than were necessary--after all, the stairs were not to blame, were they?

_No, you are you…you idiot…! How…How could you let this happen…?! You are obviously stuck with this cretin until…until God knows when, damn it all…! This was not part of the plan--This…This could ruin everything, who knows what he could do. He actually has humanity, has a human personality…All of which was unneeded…You wanted some**thing** to talk to, not some**one**…! You deal with humans already, humans who care little for your own personal issues, and now, now you have ANOTHER one--who is a sodding git to boot…!_

"Well, I know that." Alfred replied after a moment, his 'body' floating right behind Arthur's own, "But I could sleep too. I just…can't do anything else. Like eat, drink…aw, man, no hamburgers-"

"Ick. Was that your favorite food?" The Kirkland bloke paused at the foot of the steps, turning around to face his conversation partner.

"Well, yeah! And why'd you say 'ick'?! They aren't gross."

"…Sure." A roll of emerald eyes, "Sure they are not."

Alfred gave a huff, along with, "I bet whatever _you _eat is gross, so I don't think you're one to talk, old man."

"Oh, will you stop calling me old! Do I look old to you?"

"…Kinda, yeah, if you want the honest truth."

The twenty-three year old let out a snarl, "I'll have you know that I am _quite _young, quite _youthful_, and _far _from old, Alfred!" Arthur found his voice rising by the second, his anger from all of the previous comments, events, and tragedies reaching the cliff of his psyche--yes, it was time for them to dive off, and he continued thus,

"I shall have you know that I one of the most powerful men in this country! I have connections, I have sway, and so help me, I will find a way to get rid of you! You may think that just because you are…are some sort of spirit or ghost or whatever you bloody well want to call it that you have some…some sort of sway over me; well, you are _wrong _Sir--" Here, Arthur even managed to jab a finger in Alfred's direction, and was only mildly shocked when it passed right through the creature's body; he took a breather for just that--to gain some breath, and continued on with,

"Wrong, wrong, horribly wrong! So help me God, I will find a way to remedy this, and remedy it shortly. You are obviously far from the type of companion I wish to have, especially for 'eternal' amounts; you are a twit, a swaggering, self-satisfied, no-good American brat! You enjoy my misery, and you think I will not stand for it? You do, don't you! So I say to you this, Alfred…"

He had moved closer, close enough to where if the young (and very confused looking) Alfred had been alive, Arthur would have felt his breath upon his fiery-with-rage skin; the glowing candle flickered softly beneath their faces, while shadows danced a private ballet of mystic proportions, "I say to you this…What are you going to do about all of it?"

"…" The specter was hanging his head, and at first Arthur wondered if Alfred was upset, angered, or any other type of negative emotion; but the moment the younger raised his head, there was a glimmer in those transparent eyes that was devious, purely deviant, and scheming, and it sent a shiver up the British one's spine. And the shivers increased once Alfred leaned down, eyes on the same line as Arthur's, while a cheeky smirked played at his face…

Before the politically-minded male could comprehend their positions, or plan an 'attack', a breath exited from Alfred's lips, and the shining red-orange light from the candle disappeared in the blink of an eye. Embarrassingly, Arthur heard himself give out a scream, a scream like a feminine tot would give after a schoolyard trick, and the man immediately threw the candle at the spirit, it too ending up like its previous brethren--smashed against the wall, into tiny pieces.

And Alfred only gave off a laugh, accessorized by a wink, as he floated upwards, his head passing through the ceiling as his laughter continued, echoing outwards, and continuing to echo as the Brit stood there, his entire body now vibrating with nerves, nerves fried to the core…

And the living male ran, ran as fast as he could, down the hall towards his bedroom, slamming the door with a gunshot-esque bang; pants were coming out at a rapid rate, faster than Arthur had ever felt before--and his bed was a welcomed sight, and the male did not even bother to change, save for throwing off his cloak, the fabric hitting the mahogany-floorboards.

The blankets were warm, inviting--and normal. They were the epitome of normalcy, and it was all Arthur wanted, all he needed. His lanky body sunk into the sheets, his head sinking into plush pillow, or dare he begin to cry out of sheer frustration.

And the warmth…That too was needed…

Especially since running through Alfred while exiting the attic had sent a cold chill up his body that had decided smarmily not to leave at all, and he could only hope that this all was just a shoddy nightmare conjured up by Jove…

Yes, Hope indeed…

* * *

Traditions were revived in Arthur's mind with the ringing of the daily alarm clock; and for a split second, as jade eyes opened blearily due to the sun's rays, he wondered if perhaps all of last night had just been some vivid and livid nightmare--but said hopes that came from that wonderment vanished like steam in a deserted hot-springs when Arthur flung back the covers, revealing his still clothed-in-everyday-wear body, instead of his normal flannel pajamas.

_W-Well…You…You could have…just been so tired, yes? Too tired to even change…? _

It was a ridiculous excuse, purely ridiculous, and probably futile, at the rate Arthur's luck was going; but as he sat there, sheets curled around his hands, and still semi-wrapped around his legs, and no ghost appeared before him, the Briton felt a flicker of the flame of hope stir within him--perhaps that bloody creature had left? Ha to you, Leatrice Dixon, if that was so!

But who really knew if that had happened? The ghost could be elsewhere, after all--this idea was the base for Arthur's hesitance as he slipped silently off the mattress, making his way downstairs towards the kitchen. Good God, when was the last time he dined? Oh…Yes, yesterday's lunch. But the Kirkland was used to this; work not only affected his sleep often, but his eating habits as well. Despite the tradition of waking up with a hungry stomach, it still was not pleasant, and immediately Arthur ventured towards the refrigerator as a craving of juice, at the very least, began to take hold of him; steps quickened with no further sight of that creature from the previous night, and the blonde male let out a relieved sigh as he opened the nearest cupboard, grabbing a tall drinking glass.

_Ah, peace and quiet, with serenity…Very much needed serenity……Perhaps it was all just a fallacy-_

The thought died on the vine as Arthur turned over his left hand, and eyebrows found themselves shooting up as the orbs beneath them locked onto a scar--a scar Arthur had never seen before, and that had certainly not been there before.

_…The lightning…_

The image of his hand being struck by the electricity from the spell was recalled instantaneous, and the twenty-three year old felt his body shake at remembering how the shock had felt, how destructive, how powerful, how-

"It's a symbol, ya know--Of the bond."

Arthur started horribly, enough for the glass in his right hand to slip and fall to the floor, shattering; his head whipped to the left, and there _he _was. Alfred floated beside him, a nonchalant smile on the youthful face, hands in ghostly pockets as booted feet floated inches above the tiled flooring.

"Ah! G-Good Lord, did you have to startle me?!"

"Sorry? Maybe you shouldn't space out as much, haha. Guess that comes with being old?"

Arthur snorted and sighed at about the approximate time, making for a very odd type of noise to echo forth; the glass had been an antique, belonging to his mother, and now it was in a million pieces on the floor, just lovely. The broom closet was only a hop and a step away, right next to the fridge, and the tool was pulled out, and the Briton got to sweeping up the glass, while he retaliated at Alfred's comment with,

"How many times do I have to tell you that I am not old?"

"But you look old! Hey, hey," The ghost looked and acted so much like a child, and Arthur had to wondered why the specter was so happy; did he not yell at Alfred last night? And were they not horrible, horrible things? So why was the boy…actually _happy _to be in his presence? Was this because of a 'Bond' that Alfred had just spoken of?

Nevertheless, whatever the reason, Alfred continued with, "Can I guess your age?"

"…" The British male paused, and once he had established no harm would come, he nodded, "Sure, why not…" _If it will make you calmer and stop babbling…_

"Umm…Thirty?"

"…" Arthur failed to speak; his mouth falling down, and eyes becoming saucer-size were enough to prevent cognitive speaking abilities. One could have even said that he looked like a mounted bass caught in surprise.

"What, too old?"

"What?! Of COURSE it was too old! "

"Umm…" The deceased male began to hum a tune--Arthur noticed, with no surprise at all, that it was the American National Anthem--while he floated about, bouncing up and down, circling the disgruntled British male, "…Twenty-seven?"

"Wha?!"

"Well, you _look _old-"

"I'm twenty-three, you twat! Two-three, twenty-three!" In a fit of immaturity, the Kirkland threw the broom down to the tiling, it clinking like a soft knock on glass--an ironic metaphor, considering the previous events.

Now it was Alfred's turn to do some goggling--granted, the boy did not know what goggling was, but he was sure doing a fine act of goggling right there in Arthur's home, and he managed to sputter, right before the Briton was going to criticize him for staring,

"No way…You are _not_-"

"I am!"

"…No way-"

"Oh, stuff it, you. What made you think I was thirty!?"

"Uh, didn't I just say you looked old? See, are you sure you're not old, because you're acting deaf-"

Arthur groaned, "You…are insufferable."

"Uh…thanks-"

"Not a compliment, Einstein."

"…Thanks." Now the word sounded as if it was poison, and Alfred was trying to excavate it from his lips and oral cavity.

"…" The broom was picked up once more, with some of Arthur's sanity returning, and once his back was turned on the somewhat-moping-and-mute specter, the living one spoke up again, and Arthur, to much disdain, found that his voice was small, that it quavered in slight motions, "…I really _do _look old to you?"Granted, Arthur had been told statements along similar lines as this one; Churchill had always never failed to reprimand him for falling asleep at his desk, or for not going home at all some nights, and he would say, 'You will age fast, if you keep this up, Arthur.'. He had always managed to blow off Winston's concern as…as some sort of fatherly figure-esque worry, but here, when a…peer of sorts (_We are far from on the same level! Just near the same AGE level!_) was telling him the same items, it…caused Arthur to be concerned. Just how old did he look? My, if he looked seven years older than he actually was…

"Yeah, you do; you've got bags under your eyes, you look sorta pale, and…and well, you talk old--"

"It is called speaking maturely, a concept you have failed to grasp at this point, apparently."

Alfred seemingly ignored the jab, for he continued with, "And you just act grumpy--like you don't sleep enough or somethin'. I mean, that's how I am when I don't…I mean, that's how I was when I didn't sleep enough. Or when I hadn't eaten in a while."

The past tense…well, it definitely unnerved Arthur; he could never forget that he was talking to someone that was dead--even if he did not look dead. If Alfred had not been transparent, and was actually touchable, he would seem purely alive--no limbs were missing, no scratches, no bruises, nothing. He was a whole human, which caused further questions in the British boy's mind.

"…I am a busy man, Alfred. Were you not a busy man before…before…?" A hand waved, as a brain tried to find appropriate words; the ghost in question found them for Arthur, stating,

"Before I kicked the bucket? …No, not really. Well…sure, sometimes I was, but at least I took breaks. You look like you never do!"

"Breaks?" In all truth, Arthur's brain did not know the meaning of the word 'break', "I am not a man who has time for such nonsense. As I stated last night, I am a man with connections--and I have worked for those connections. And I still work to maintain said connections, and-"

"So…You're saying you know a lot of people?"

"…" For the…unaccounted time in the past twelve hours, Arthur wanted to put his head through a brick wall--repeatedly, "Yes, that normally is what 'having connections' means. And not to mention, this is far for the time of someone of my statute to take a break--or breaks."

"…Time? Hey! I never got to ask, what year is it? Huh?"

"…Year? You do not know?"

Alfred shrugged, "Time is…" Brows furrowed in concentration, "It's…something that starts with 'I'--Anyway, time doesn't matter when you're dead. Nothing happens. There's no…no…Time doesn't happen."

"…It is nineteen-forty-five."

"Wha? Only nineteen-forty-five?!" Alfred looked horribly crestfallen, "Damn it, I wanted to see the _future_…That year…That's…Never mind, thanks."

"…Sure." Curious, quite curious…The future…? When had the boy…expired? (_Oh, lovely choice of words, Arthur--thank God you kept your mouth shut and did not say it._) It had to have been…soon? And the Britain-inhabitant would have questioned, if he had not found it so improper; but he had not found it improper right off the bat, a thought which scared Arthur. Never did manners and curiosity wage wars--the former always won by default; but with…this ghost, with this…creature? Man? (What _was _the proper title for the younger of the two?) Why, it was quite different--quite different indeed.

Instead, a more proper question formed itself in the twenty-three old one's mind, "Alfred…at what age…did you…um…At…When did you-?"

"Hmm? Oh, nineteen."

Green gems blinked; how surprising! It was as if…Alfred saw the question coming…But was more surprising was the fact that he acted so…care-free about it. He had even shrugged while stating his age, as if it was no big deal that he had died so young…Was it due to him being dead for a long time, and the spirit was just used to the simple, truthful facts?

Nevertheless, Arthur heard himself murmuring, "That…That is quite young…"

"Huh? Uh…Yeah…Yeah, it is…"

Silence enveloped the duo as Arthur finished up the sweeping, the glass finding a final resting place in the nearby wastebasket; memories of his mother hauntingly stirred in the Briton's cortex. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear Alice Kirkland's beautiful voice singing the soft lullabies that always had put Arthur to slumber each and every night when he was a boy; he could still feel her arms encircling a child's body, as they stood out on the back-porch of their old home, their large home…a home Arthur remembered all too clearly before he had relocated to Manchester a few years ago. They used to watch the sunsets, yes…Arthur remembered those moments clearly, perfectly; it was as if he could still feel her arms around him, as he would ask,

"_Mum?"_

_"Yes, poppet?"_

"_Do…Do you know where we go when we die…?"_

_"Haha, sweetie, of course I do…We go to a beautiful place, called Heaven…It's another Side, another Place…"_

_The little Englishman had frowned, "But…But can we ever come back to Earth, Mummy? What if I want you or Grandad or Grandmum to see me? Or Father?"_

_"…No, Honey, we cannot, we stay there forever……"_

…_You were wrong, Mum…You were completely and utterly wrong…_

And now that Arthur thought about it, he had remembered spells dealing with summoning the dead; he was sure that 'accidental ghosts' were not the only way. But he had never wanted to do those types of occult activities; there was just…in his heart, there was just something despicable about wanting to bring the dead back into this realm--if what his Mum had said about Heaven was true, why would you want to come back?

But here, with Alfred, who happened to--interestingly enough--be seated at the kitchen table, he had not spoken of an Eternal Utopia, or a Heaven, or even a Hell. All he had said was 'Other Side', and that, if the Brit understood the nineteen year old's mumblings correctly, Time did not exist there. That it was…irrelevant? Yes, irrelevant, most likely--which just showed that Alfred spoke with a horrible diction.

Death had never been a major thought on Arthur's mind; what with the war and all, yes, he feared his head would be chopped off--there had been many an insane one after him, but it had quieted down, God bless it all. But here and now, there was an actual dead person _sitting _in his _kitchen_, staring with a bored expression at the potted plant on the table, who, if Arthur could guess correctly, died recently, the way he spoke half-heartedly of this year.

And here all he had wanted was a friend…Not…Not a…Whatever it was! Whatever this was! Someone tell him what it was…!

_A…'Bond'…? _

Was it…Really…?

Well, if it was, it was an awkward bond--what to say? Although Arthur knew he was temporarily stuck with Alfred (_Emphasis on temporarily--I shall find that spell soon enough, believe you me…_), he was still here--here, near, and the European knew he had to…speak with him. Speaking that did not consist of high-pitch vocalization, mind you.

"So…er…" He was putting the broom away, glancing over his shoulder at the ghost, whose fingers were passing through the leafy greens of the lilies on the tables, "If I may ask…you died…recently…?"

"Mm? Yes, I did. Speaking of which…did we win?"

"…Win?"

"Yeah, win. As in-"

"The…War…? World War II…?"

Alfred nodded, his face brightening up by the second, "So did we? Did we?!"

"…Y-Yes, the Allies won…"

"Awesome! I knew the heroes would win!" The boy put a fist in the air, delighted at the revelation, or at least in Arthur's mind, he was; Alfred, truthfully, was indeed happy, but the clear fact was, unbeknownst to the Brit, was that the nineteen year old knew that the Allies had won--and had only asked to keep up appearances, and…well, for another _personal _reason.

But beside it all, the question stirred other questions in the Kirkland's mind--he did not know who won? Why, you had to be a hermit in the middle of Kilimanjaro to not know that, but with any luck, those men would have known.

_He obviously died before the War ended…_

Neither were further forthcoming with words; Arthur seated himself opposite of the spirit, appetite for a morning meal waning rapidly, and even the urge for a spot of tea was not coming to the surface either. Green eyes stole a glance at Alfred, whose brow was furrowed in concentration; the lad was waving his hand back and forth threw the lilies on the table, and some small part of Arthur jokingly figured that the man was trying to touch the foliage. His saner (and politer) side, though, spoke forth, with,

"Something on your mind?"

"Hmm…? Uh…Yeah, kinda."

"…Well?" The Brit further probed, and it only caused the American to sigh,

"I…I really don't want to bring it up."

"What, is it worse than all of _this_?"

"…" Alfred did not speak a response for some time, and Arthur found himself huffing in aggravation, standing up from the table while bitterly speaking,

"Well, if you wish not to speak, that is quite fine by my standards." He knew he had to eat, even if his stomach had lost some of its growl with the ghost's appearance; but an apparition was not a normal object that was dealt with on a daily basis! Oh, his woe--but he could not it let stop him, so warm water found its way into a teapot not a moment after the sentence was finished.

"…I just-"

"What?" Now a stove was being heated, being turned on, and Arthur had literally snapped at the dead one, the word being a viper's poison.

"…I just didn't want to upset you with the question, alright?!"

"Ha! You? Upset me? There is a treat. In case your stupidity has blinded you, which apparently it has, I have been 'upset' ever since you bloody well came through my _floor_!"

If Arthur had just managed to turn around, he would have seen a spirit with a disgusted, disgruntled expression, an expression full of wrath and hellfire, it would have made the crankiest crone wallow in fear and wet his drawers.

"Alright, then, here's your question, smart guy! Since you are so popular, and since you have so many connections, why the hell did you even need a summoning spell!?"

"…" The Briton felt himself shiver at Alfred's tone--it was furious, it was angered, it was sick and tired of being put down--all of that was clearly obvious. And where normally Arthur would return the banter with his own snappish tone, said tone, and said banter, deserted his brain, and he could only respond with, while slowly turning around, teapot in hand, "What…?"

"You…You act like such a…a smart-ass! A hot shot! Like you know lots of people and are the President of the US or something! So why does someone like you need to summon a creature? Huh?"

"…I-I said…I-I told you! I was looking for some companionship-"

"So what does that mean, huh? You don't have any friends of your own?!" Alfred was never this mean, had never been this cruel--but with the greeting he was getting at this point, and this bastard's sour attitude, he just could no longer take it.

"…S-Shut up! I-"

"What? You were _desperate_? You're a desperate loner, is that it? And you got desperate enough to try to be an occu-whatever, so you could summon some fuzzy rabbit you could complain to?! But, oh, to both of our _joy_, you got stuck with me, and that just eats you up, doesn't it? Because _I'm _human--_I _can talk back, and _I _have feelings that I easily express!"

"Y-You…You do not have any idea what you are speaking of--!" _You do…Just…Just shut up…I…I cannot deal with this-_

"Oh, no idea at all, eh?" Alfred removed himself from the seat, and floated speedily towards the standing Brit, teapot hanging from his hand in a limp fashion, "Let me guess further then--No one actually _likes _you, do they? Or you do not like _them_! Or there is obviously something wrong with you, in any case. I just…" Alfred paused, fists clenching, and once his mouth opened, the already-barraged Arthur was hit even further, "I just was thinking you're a selfish bastard, and you know what?! I now _know _you are! If things don't go your way, if people don't act your way, you just think they're not worth talking to, am I right? Which is why you don't want anything to do with me! I'm not the little creature you wanted--I'm actually _human_. And you already have no human relationships, so that just pisses you off, doesn't it?! That you're stuck with me!"

"…S-Shut up…" His voice was meek, like a child, and Arthur found it hard to look his companion in the eye.

"I just…I can't believe you! You think you have it hard!? Look at me!"

"…A-Alfred-"

"_Look _at me!" It was not just a statement--now it was a command, and the Kirkland bloke felt himself complying without much hesitation; it was as if Alfred had become the 'Master', and he was the conforming 'Servant'.

Transparent eyes locked with troubled green orbs, and for a spilt second, Arthur wondered a single phrase:

_I wonder what his eye color used to be…_

"At least you are not _dead_, Arthur. And at least you do not have to follow some…some…jerk around for the rest of Eternity! Some guy who doesn't even give a damn!"

"…Y-You think you know me?" The twenty-three year old whispered hotly, "Well, you do not-"

"No, but I knew people like you--People who act like they own the world, and not caring about everyone else!"

"OH, and I bet you were such a 'hot-shot' when you were alive, weren't you?! Mister-Everyone-Loves-Me?!"

"You know what? Yeah, I was! But it was because I actually _cared _about people!"

"I DO care about people!" Arthur's voice was rising, the fire that had died down now resurrecting itself, "It is my job to care about people!"

"Alright, then, answer me this---Why don't you care about me, then? Why am I treated like shit, Arthur?!"

"…B-Because you deserve it-"

Alfred snorted, "OH, lovely. Nice answer, I deserve it. Why, because I'm dead?"

"…I-I…" He was faltering, an event that rarely happened in Arthur's life, "W-What I meant was-"

"No, I deserve it because I wasn't what you _wanted_. So that makes me nothing to you. I wasn't the little animal that you wanted to complain to, wanted to 'share your troubles with', so I deserve every single piece of hatred you want to dish out, is that it?"

"…S-Stop it. Stop saying that! It's-"

"True. And you know it. And what does that make you, hmm? A freak, a weirdo? For being desperate enough-"

"STOP." He had shouted it firmly, and it made the specter blink, and harden his face; Arthur said no more, and only turned halfway to turn off the stove, the flame dying on the vine; the teapot found a home on the counter, while the Brit spoke not a word, and after the porcelain pot was put down, Alfred could only murmur,

"…Hey, Arty…" A clearing of the throat, "Arthur-"

"Oh, save it. I'm…I'm going for a walk, the fresh air will help."

"H-Hey, look, I-"

"I _said_." The male turned, his feet having already taken him to the kitchen doorway, "Save. It."

"Aw, come on, look! I was…" Alfred started bodily when the male did not bother to respond, instead choosing to leave the room, and henceforth go to the front door, "Arthur! H-Hey!"

Said male did not speak at that door either, instead opening the door, and, once he felt the early-morning breeze, he reached for the light fawn-colored jacket hanging by the door; the front door closed with Arthur's exit not a second later…

…And a desperate ghost passed through solid wall right afterwards.

* * *

"A day off?" Gregory could not be hearing Arthur correctly? "A-Are you--Sir, are you-"

"Just…tell Master Churchill I am feeling a tad under the weather, Gregory." Arthur had walked for two blocks, eyes locked fully onto the sidewalk to stop any tears from coming forth; now here was a payphone, and he was making a decision that had to be made--he just…could not come into work. How could he? With all of this on his shoulders? The people would be let down if he decided to work while not at his best, so he might as well not work at all.

"O-Oh, yes Sir! Sir, you needed a day off, we all knew that-"

"It is not as if I _want _this, Gregory…"

"Oh! Y-Yes, Sir, understandable! Please, just rest, take a break--You certainly deserve it."

"Mm, good day, Gregory." _He seemed…quite joyous that I would not be there today…_

Of course, Arthur was assuming a great deal there; the red-head back at work was joyous--but because Arthur was taking a break, that he was actually looking after his health. He was not happy that his employer would be absent--when the Kirkland was in a good mood, he could be a lovely boss. But after that verbal beating from Alfred, Arthur was assuming a lot--and thinking of a lot.

_That git was right…That bloody git was RIGHT…Maybe he isn't such an idiot after all…_

Hanging up the phone with a sigh, Arthur caught sight of said 'git' out of the corner of his eye--Alfred was peering from around the corner at a building at him, and had been following him ever since he had left his home; following at a distance, mind you.

He had been right about everything…Arthur was not a people-person; never had been, never would be. When he had been a schoolchild, the books were his friends--both textbooks and novels. They, his peers, had isolated him with their admiring: he was different, he was smarter, so he was a leper. At meetings, at work…They were never ones to share a pint with him after hours, or give him their personal thoughts.

He was crude, hot-headed, and even sometimes egotistical…Everything Alfred had, surprisingly, shouted.

What kind of person am I…? That was the question in his mind as his feet moved along the bumpy sidewalk, as a lean body swam through a small sea of other pedestrians. Alfred has said he must be many things, the words 'freak' and 'weirdo' sticking out right off the bat…But desperate…that word had hit home, because Arthur knew it was _true_.

He did not act like a normal human-- he did not try to change his personality, try to make friends. Oh, no, he tried to solve it by magic--and that was far from normalcy.

…_You have never been normal, though…Not in anyone else's eyes… Not normal in wit, in intelligence…in power, in attitude…And now Alfred is part of that group…Most likely, anyway…_

But he liked magic; he liked different! Mum had always wanted him to be different, to stand out! So…So…

Oh, bloody tears! Slyly, a sleeve came up to wipe the becoming-wet eyes; he had not cried right off the bat, and he would certainly not cry in public, and even more so when Alfred was still following him.

_Why doesn't he just go away…?_

That was an obvious answer--the despondent expression on the ghost gave away his feelings of sorry and pity, but Arthur wanted to hear none of it. For, in his mind, there was nothing for Alfred to feel sorry for--he had been one-hundred percent correct, on everything.

_Maybe you needed to hear it, but just did not want to…Maybe it was everything everyone else had been saying in nice ways, but he just said it bluntly… _

_But that does not mean that it is painless…_

And now what could he do…? What could he say…? He had always been a horrible liar, and it was hard to lie and deny all of _that_, was it not?

All he could do was keep walking, with blind eyes--eyes blind to the world around him, save for the breezy air, the sun shining on his thin face…And a ghost that was following silently behind…

* * *

It was all a fallacy, and Alfred knew it; and if Arthur found out now, he would want to be banished away, far away, so he could not see the hurt that would bloom on the Englishman's face if he found out the truth.

His questions, his actions, _every single one _before had been a ploy, the part he had to play--his friend Kiku from the other side had explained it all clearly, that he had to act curious, act wanting and needing answers.

Granted, he had not known the year, that had been genuine--but everything else he knew.

It had only been for Arthur's stability and mindset he had probed; it had been for Arthur's peace that he had asked him his name…When Alfred had known all along.

_Why did **you **have to summon me…? Jeeze…_

It had been a painful death, he hated to reminisce on it, and had been glad when the Kirkland had not asked right away about it; but what was more painful was _this_--at least his death had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing, this was…

…Eternal…

This had all been unplanned--the portal had just appeared under his feet, and Kiku had just told him that if that ever happened, he was to jump--for a human soul, a living mortal, had wanted him, had needed him.

…No one told him it was to be Arthur, or he would never have jumped.

For Arthur…Oh, Arthur, you poor soul…If you really knew…

_If you really knew that I was to have been your husband in the future, you would want me gone in an instant…_

It was true; and when he had it all explained it to him on the Other Side, Alfred had mixed emotions. He had seen the 'film' of what his life could have been, a tradition given to all dead souls, so no future questions remained, and he had well…He had believed Arthur to be a handsome man, a man who knew how to talk, how to act, but acted like a…what was it he had said to his Japanese friend…? A…'Crazy British man'? Yes, that was it. But he had not known whom Arthur _was_. Just Arthur Kirkland, his name, face, and how he spoke, his accent. And now that he was meeting _the real _Arthur, it was hard to believe that this was the man he would have fallen in love with, at the end of World War II.

…_But this is a different Arthur than the one you saw, right…?_

_Yes…Yes, he has to be…B-Because-!_

Because Arthur would not have been alone at this point, if Alfred was not dead…If he had not been _murdered_…

He would not be as horrible, mentally-wise; he would not be emotionally-drained. Why would he be, if his future spouse had been with him…?

Oh, and that wedding would have been beautiful--Apparently, Arthur knew a priest (or had known?) who did those sort of weddings underground, and it would have been Arthur's idea, and…

The ghost felt his chest twitch, an odd sensation for one who is dead; the blonde a few feet in front of him, moving at a snail's pace, could never know of this--any of this.

It was enough that Alfred felt the pain; it would bring even more pain if Arthur knew the truth.

And it was not as if the spirit was in love with him now--but…there was something there. An emotion the American could not name. Most likely, some form of compassion, sprinkled with doses of pity and prejudice, and of pride and protection.

But to live with this for the rest of Time…? Until Arthur _died_…?

He had at first thought that if he ever encountered the Kirkland on the Other Side, they could perhaps start a relationship of sorts then; but apparently, the Gods had not liked that idea, so Fate had had some fun, and probably some whiskey, and had decided on _this_…

And now Alfred was not sure if he even wanted to stay around; maybe Arthur had the right idea about sending him back, after all…It was clear the man did not want him around, and…and…

_Wait a second…_

The specter paused in his movements; normally, Alfred was never hit with revelations--it just was not his sort of thing. But here, here one had collided with his mind like a comet with Earth itself.

_Kiku said…that spirits from the Other Side were kept there for a reason…That the Gods had…had said that they were not allowed to pass on, not yet--was…was this my reason…?_

_And he…he said that we were summoned sometimes…when we were needed…So…_

…_So Arthur needs me…He may not have wanted me, but he…he NEEDS me…He may not even know that…He figured he needed a friend, a non-human friend…And he thinks he got stuck with me, but…_

…_But he really does need me…_

…_S-So I can't leave him…I can't…And…And this wasn't the Arthur from the future Kiku showed me…That Arthur…He looked so much happier…so much healthier…_

_He was supposed to be my husband…I can't just leave him…B-But he can't ever find that out…! W-What will he think…?!_

_I-I…I mean, I don't love him or anything…I…I…_

…_Hell, I don't know…_

All Alfred did know was that he was getting a God-awful headache, and a decision had to be made eventually--and it was, when he started moving once more, at a faster…float; soon enough, he was at Arthur's side, the British one not giving him a second glance--or even a first.

"Hey…"

"…"

The American tried a small smile, "Listen…You may not want to talk to me, since…well, no one else can see me, but…will you listen?"

A slight, hesitant nod, and it caused Alfred to smile larger, "Good! Look, Arthur, I…I just…I said all of that because…W-Well, I'm-"

"You do not have to say it…" It was a soft murmur, small enough so anyone would believe Arthur was just slightly talking to himself--if they heard it at all.

"B-But…shouldn't I?"

A sigh, "You had every right to say all of that, Alfred…You were right about all of it, too…"

"O-Oh?" Well, there was a first time for everything, now was there not? "U-Uh…O-Okay…"

Silence filtered in between the pair, but the ghost noticed a small smile on the British male's face…and it sent a warm breath through Alfred's spirit.

"Hey…Thank you."

"Hmm?"

"…Just…thank you." Arthur said no more, and it left Alfred even more confused. Was he thanking him for saying all of that stuff? For following him?

"W-Well…The Bond sorta forces me to follow you---B-But I choose the distance! I can be close, or far, or up in the sky, or underground, or-"

"You're babbling..." The light laugh that came from the European almost made the statement loud enough for other ears to hear, but Arthur caught himself just in time.

"…O-Oh, yeah…"

"Just…thank you. For everything…"

He _was _thanking him for everything; no one had had the gall to say all of that, or any of that, to Arthur before, and it was very late coming. It should have been stated eons ago, and Arthur knew it---he was just wondering why a ghost, why this ghost, had had to tell it. Ah, did it really matter in the end…?

"So…uh…you've got the day off?"

A nod was the reply, but Arthur had managed to look him in the eye.

"Wanna hang out, then?"

This time Arthur did laugh aloud, and a few pedestrians gave him a curious glance, but for once…he paid them no heed, only speaking,

"'Hang out'? Is that what you bloody Americans do every day?"

"Hey! I worked too! I'm…I'm not that lazy!"

"…Then how lazy _are _you, twit?" It was another insult, but it was different--it had a friendly tone, a teasing tone, and Alfred found himself pouting.

"You know, you're sorta cruel."

"Mmhm, I suppose I am."

"…Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Are we going to 'hang out'?"

"And how do you expect us to hang out, hmm? You are a ghost, remember?"

"At home, then?" Alfred backed away, floating in the returning direction, head nodding towards the way of the brownstone, "Come on, you needed a day off, right? So why not rest at home…? And I can keep you company!"

"…" _Do not do this to me, Alfred…_It was not the 'hanging out at home' that was the problem; it was this as a whole. He could…He could not allow Alfred to stay, for a plethora of reasons--he was dead was just a start. A dead human did not belong here--it needed to be sent back, to be put to rest…By staying here, that was to never happen.

Not to mention, his whole life was in a twist--How was Arthur to work and live if he was bonded with this American boy for the rest of his life…? The answer was to be that he could not, and that was another reason to chalk up for Alfred going back to the Other Side.

…He…He could live with being alone…Yes…? Right…? He would have to, if Alfred was to be happy, safe, and at Reset…He would have to put his own feelings aside…

…Not that he was actually bonding with this idiot…No, no not at all.

…But no one had ever talked to him so…so _kindly_…So _informally_, so…so _humanly_…

…And he tried to ignore that feeling that he had known Alfred forever…That little feeling that crept up into his heart whenever the apparition smiled warmly…

So…So he would find that spell…Find it, and send him home…

…_And I shall be alright with it, and-_

"Arthur, why ya staring, hmm? Enjoying the view, haha?"

"…S-Sorry…Yes…"

But for now…Until he found the spell in…whatever volume of Leatrice's tomes…

Maybe the bond was not to be such a horrible thing after all…

"You know, you should…um…?"

"What...?"

"…Really do something with those eyebrows--HEY! No need to glare!"

"…Idiot."

The walk afterwards was quiet, except for sparse humming by Alfred…

…Yes, maybe it was not to be such a bad thing after all…

* * *

A/N: Annnnnd there's chapter 2! 8D Hope you all enjoyed it!

Yep, more secrets revealed--and some pretty heartbreaking ones, on Alfred's part.

Lots more to come, folks, we're just getting started! We've still got more Evil!France, Silly!Alfred, and Grumpy!Arthur to come---And hey, expect some romance and suicide and murder and mystery (And mysterious murder!) in the near future.

Thanks for the support guys! Stay tuned!


	4. Three: In Which Songs Are Sung

A/N: And we return back to our ghost story! : D Thanks for all the recent support—let's continue on, and expect some more laughs this time around ;D But be warned—where there are laughs, there are also tears!

Song Inspiration:

- "All I Need", by Within Temptation

- "How I Could Just Kill a Man", by Charlotte Sometimes (XD Fits this entire story very well)

- "Ever the Same", by Rob Thomas

- "Nobody Wins", by the Veronicas

- "Please" by Ludo (Inspires the ending)

- "Just a Dream", by Carrie Underwood (Don't watch the music video unless you want to bawl your eyes out, lovelies)

- "You Belong with Me", by Taylor Swift (Inspired 'flashbacks' of Alfred's possible life)

- "Because I Want You", by Placebo

- "Losing Your Memory", by Ryan Star (Inspired Alfred's 'flashbacks' of what could have been his life)

- "Last Train Home", by Ryan Star (Also flashback inspiration)

- "Whiskey Lullaby", by Brad Paisely and Alison Krauss (Also inspired the flashbacks xD Kinda see where I'm going with this? Also has a sad music video)

And if you can guess the song Arthur and Alfred sing in this chapter, you win e-cookies :] It's a toughie, you may have to Google the lyrics!

* * *

_Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old loves are the worst._

_- SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, _

_The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

He figured he would gain some Peace, some Quiet, upon returning home; Alfred seemed to have calmed down, more tranquil than normal, at least, and there was a bright light of Serenity shining down the 'pathway', and Arthur hoped his nimble fingers would grab onto it, with haste.

Unfortunately, the moment was eventually ruined by Alfred's lack of manners (considering that Arthur was relaxing in a cushy, plush living room chair, tartan-pattern mind you, eyes closed in hoping for Serene moments), his over-flowing amount of curiosity, and his lack of patience (_Really, we just stepped through the bloody door…!_). His crystal-clear body, Arthur found out, after one eye peaked open reluctantly, was milling about, with a bouncy float, enjoying the 'scenery'—in this case, the entire house, leaving no metaphoric stone unturned or unseen by wide, childish eyes.

Hands melted through solids, and the Briton, when he was sure the other would not see his stare, noticed a frown of disdain on the more youthful male at the fact that solids were no longer tangible to his touch—or, that was the Kirkland's first guess, and had been his hypothesis so far. But when a swear echoed out from near the fireplace, Arthur was soon to realize that he had been wrong—a blow to his rapidly-shrinking pride.

"I want it…C'mon…" Alfred was murmuring under his breath as he faced the fireplace, hands continuously passing through the false flowers the Brit had placed on the surface for further décor. But the ghost found his hand passing through the fake germaniums each time, and the phrase was repeated each and every time, Arthur begrudgingly listening to it each time.

Enough came to be enough, the repetition driving the twenty-three year old's mind to the land of Bonkers, and Arthur let out a,

"What the bloody hell are you-"

But he stopped; he was leaning forward, mouth agape, as, there, Alfred stood…

…With a flower floating in his hand…

The germanium's petals visibly went through the fingers, and Arthur could even see the stem through the closed fist, but yes—it was there, in the air, being _held_…

"…How…?" Arthur was never one for holding back speech, and yet, this…this simple action he had apparently been wrong about, was stunning his nervous system, and had he been standing, he would have feared a painful destination for his knees.

"Finally!" Alfred either choose to not hear the other male, or it was an act of actual sincerity, it was hard to tell, "I really hate how They make everything so complicated…"

"'They'? And how…" The Brit's courage began to be born once again, as he stood up from his seat, "How are you-"

"Holdin' it? S' a little thing spirits can do. Well, sometimes they can do it. My friend Kiku told me that on a whole, spirits, ghosts, stuff like that, they can't hold things or touch anything. But he also…well, he was kinda vague, but he said that if the spirit 'desires strongly enough'," The nineteen year old did put in the air-quotes, and Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes, as the boy continued, "they can actually touch whatever they want."

"You…have to want to do it enough, is that what you're saying?"

Alfred shrugged, "Guess so. You just…have to want it."

"…And you wanted to…hold the flower that badly?"

A blonde eyebrow quirked, "You make it sound like a bad thing…"

"…" Arthur remained silent; in his mind, it was a bad thing—to want something so, so _trivial_ that _badly_…? Really, it was just a flower. Why want that so badly…? Why…Why…

…_Oh…_

_He…He cannot touch anything…Feel anything…_

The twenty-three year old silently cursed himself for his negative connotations; Alfred would never again feel the dripping rain on his skin, the heat of the sun on his face, the silkiness of flower petals or even human skin brushing against his fingertips—at least, not in the normal way. Here he had to, it seemed, put his whole heart and soul into even the most minimal actions. Arthur had seen how much concentration the American had had to put into just holding a _germanium_…Something Arthur could pick up and hold and caress without a second thought.

"…No, no it is not…I suppose…" Green eyes found themselves hesitantly straying from the frown on the more juvenile of the duo, who he himself placed the flora back into its vase mutely, only giving off a small shrug, a motion that hereby said, 'the topic is dropped'.

But, of course, Alfred had a tiny attention-span; it was the same size as Arthur's patience on any day (no difference between good and bad, mind you)—gnat-height, and fingernail thick. So it was no surprise to the British male, as he seated himself once more, when the American spoke up with,

"So what do you do for fun around here?"

"…I am sure that whatever I consider to be fun will not be in the same categories of your own tastes."

"Meaning…?"

_My God, did death turn you into a dolt..? _"Meaning that you should not ask, for you will not agree with me. I prefer the quieter aspects of life, something you seem to not want."

"You 'seem' things a lot—how do ya know I won't like what you do?"

"Because. I do. I enjoy my novels, my tea—you, on the other hand, are the type to enjoy a beer, that dreaded 'boob tube', and, apparently, munching on hamburgers at a loud, obnoxious bar and-or restaurant, while flirting with every big breasted woman you lay your eyes upon."

Alfred gave the elder a stare that was part confusion, part…more confusion, "That's a really big assumption. Or…'seem' or whatever."

"Seeming is a verb in this context, you twat."

"You do that a lot too!" Now the ghost was frowning, while an accusatory finger was aimed right in the European's direction and said expression upon the youthful face deepened even further when Arthur just huffed, stating,

"Oh, do _what_?"

"That! Correct me! Or say I'm wrong, and then state what is correct, or…or something!"

A roll of jade eyes, "How can I help all of that? After all, should I not correct you when you are wrong?"

"Well, yeah, I guess—but the way you do it is kinda…I don't know, but it's sort of rude…?"

A glare, "Oh, take it how you wish. You just need stronger skin if that little thing bothers you. It is just how I am. It is how I have always been."

"…" The specter spoke no more, instead floating back a small amount of feet, crystalline eyes staring at a Briton, whose grimace was far from charming, whose arms folded in a protective and irked manner gave off an icy edge, and it was as if a protective shield had sprung to life around Arthur—and in a way, Alfred knew this to be true.

The elder's words rang out in the younger's head…'How I always am' rang out with a repeating motion in the American's ears, and although his lips twitched to spill a secret or two, he kept them closed—lest he open up a dreadful encounter with the man who would have been his everything, the center of his world…

"…You weren't supposed to be like this…" It was nearly a mute murmur—Arthur failed to hear it, only choosing to pick up a novel from the nearby coffee table, flipping through the pages in a slow fashion, and the spirit noticed how emerald eyes would flicker to his used-to-be-tangible body off and on, every few seconds or so, turning to every other minute as the time flew by quickly.

With quick motions they moved about, despite remaining silent, Alfred's thoughts were elsewhere—floating back towards a conversation he saw and heard within the gray "clouds" of the Other Side, as Kiku explained what could have been…

_Granted, They could not show you everything…How could they…? Condensing an entire lifetime into a few hours and-or days' time was impossible…_

_But Kiku showed him the highlights, the dearest and sweetest moments…the first kiss, the first date…the second…the first time…the wedding…the adoption of Peter, their would-have-been son…_

…_It was, though…the third date that Alfred found his mind floating back towards…_

"_You git, haha…I really wonder how you convinced me to go on a third date with you…" It was August, 1945, in an alternate universe that could have existed perfectly, and the Briton was stretched out on the couch, head resting on the American's shoulder._

"_Well, you asked me out on the first date," Alfred countered with, a smile on his face as he breathed in the Englishman's locks, and even more at the 'insult'—Arthur had loved to call him 'git' in this life, but it was always with a smile, or a blush, or a moan of rapture; so, so much different from Reality… "And you asked me out on the SECOND date, so-" _

_"S-Shut up…And by the way, that movie we just watched was-"_

_"Horrendous?" The Jones boy scoffed—in this Life, Arthur would have known his last name on their first meeting; now, as a ghost, Alfred could not chance the Brit knowing his full identity—or he would realize that he would have met the American eventually, in a private meeting…a meeting that would have started it all… "Is that what you were going to say?"_

_"…Maybe…But, really, Alfred, it was…it…" He was trying to be gentle, but there was a war of qualms upon his brow, "It…could have been better…"_

_"Hey, now…Alright, maybe, but-"_

"_Shh…" Arthur placed a finger on smooth, twenty- one year old lips—he would have been twenty-one at this time; Alfred's death at nineteen, on March eight, nineteen-forty-four, had just been four months premature of his twentieth birthday, and now, a year later, his life would have been so perfect…a boyfriend that was absolutely 'smitten' with him, as Arthur would reveal in intimate moments, was more than Alfred had ever really thought he would be able to obtain. And his birthday last month was amazing…or would have been, anyway…Kiku showed him joyous images of celebration with Matthew, his brother, his allies and friends, his former general in the Air Force…And of course, his one and only lover…_

_Sure, he had had girls…Even one or two guys…No one could resist a boy in uniform, now could they…? _

_But Arthur had been different—mainly because it had been unexpected. I mean, really—the Assistant to the Prime Minister…!? Alfred had never seen it coming, nor had the Briton; especially since he had made the first move._

_But now, now the beginning was not on the forefront of either of their minds as Arthur forced his younger lover towards him even more, eventually pulling the bigger man down on top of him, foreheads coming to touch as the European whispered,_

"_Let's just…drop the subject of movies, yes…?" _

_"Mm, and what subject would ya rather talk about?"_

_"…I do not know, I just wish not to argue tonight, Alfred…" Arthur nuzzled his own cheek against the other's, while said man just gave a laugh,_

_"HA! But you like to argue sometimes. You always say I challenge you." _

_"And you do, it is true. Just…tonight…I want…I want some peace…"_

_"…You okay…?"_

_"…" Silence for a moment, and the elder pulled his face back, to lock his emerald gems with cerulean orbs, "I just…well, I was just thinking, during the movie…about…about-"_

_"You mean the flying scenes? With all the planes and stuff?"_

_"Yes…was it not dangerous?"_

_"Psh, of course it was! I had Germans shooting at me, while I tried to bomb 'em and…and…stuff like that! But what'cha getting…" Alfred paused, as realization dawned, and he could only murmur the end of his statement, with, "…at…"_

_He was thinking about death…that much was obvious to the normally-clueless American; Arthur's eyes were glued to a tiny corner of the carpeted floor of their shared apartment—well, it had been Alfred's that he rented after their first date; it had been a spontaneous action, but he knew by the way the Englishman had been eyeing him that he should not go home anytime soon…_

_But now, now Arthur's grip on him tightened, as he murmured,_

_"Yes…We…We could have never met, you know…if…if you had been-" _

_"I thought I told you not to talk like that, Arty."_

_"And I thought I told you not to call me that." A roll of the eyes, but Arthur was still in his compassionate mood, giving his young lover an Eskimo kiss, "I just…it comes to me…the fact of how lucky we were…"_

_"Yeah, I guess; I just think it was more the Germans had horrible aim, heh." _

_"You really should not joke about death, my dear. It can come around and bite you on the arse-"_

_"Oh, but isn't that your job?" A grin, and the Brit was blushing red—bright, ruby red._

_"…S-Stop that." _

_"Hey, you're the guy who said 'arse'-"_

_"And you're the idiot who made a sexual comment out of an innocent phrase."_

_"Well…Well…!"_

_Arthur only rolled his eyes once more at his stuttering lover—when the real Alfred, in all his ghostly self, had seen this action for the first time on the Other Side, while viewing the days-that-could-have-been, he had found it simply adorable…And now he could never admit such a fact aloud._

_"Oh come on! Don't roll your eyes at me!" _

_"Oh, but here I thought you enjoyed it when I did such a thing? Hmm?"_

_"Er…HEY!" Alfred was quick to initiate a subject-change, along with initiate an act to hide his creeping blush; he leapt from the couch, shouting with a boisterous tone, "Did I show ya what I found in the attic earlier? When you moved in, you put lots of stuff up there, remember? I found something awesome while I was up there this morning!"_

_"Hmm? What?"_

_Feet stomped in elephant-esque motions into the next room, "I put it in the bedroom 'cause I wanted to surprise you later, but might as well do it now, right?"_

_Arthur's jaw became slacked as his lover returned; the dusty acoustic guitar in strong hands shimmered in the afternoon light, the strings taunt and ready for plucking. A pick was tucked in Alfred's fingers, the same hue as the Briton's irises._

_"Oh my Lord…I have…I have not even thought about that in years!" The Kirkland hopped up from the furniture after emitting the breathy exclamation, strolling over towards the taller male with hasty steps, "My father's guitar…"_

_It had not changed one bit, after months and years of hibernating in dusty rooms; its golden oak surface was still smooth, and as Arthur gave the guitar a practice twang; it sounded out majestically. _

_"Can ya play it?"_

_"Of course—but I have not played it in years, Alfred…My God, my father gave this to me before he died…I just…"_

_"You've been too busy to play?"_

_"Yes, and the work pushed my hobbies aside, for a long while…And I suppose the instrument just…reminded me so, so much of him…That I no longer wished to look upon it…" A solemn sigh escaped the elder's throat as he seated himself back on the couch, the guitar balanced on his lap._

_"…Hey, can you play it now?"_

_"Hmm?" Arthur's mind was obviously elsewhere—he did not gaze at Alfred, having eyes only for the strings of the guitar, and the instrument itself._

_"Play? Can ya? Please?" _

_"Oh, Alfred, no. I'm out of practice, really…Besides, what will I play? I do not know a song at the moment-"_

_"Please…?" A pleading tone caused a glimmer of an unknown emotion to flash across the European's eyes, "C'mon Arty…It's just me, you don't have to put on a super-awesome symphony, right?"_

_"…But…" _

_"C'mon, I won't laugh…"_

_Arthur let out a sigh once more, stating, "Alright. But what song-"_

_"You choose!"_

_"Oh, bollocks. You want ME to choose? When you have repeatedly told me you detest my taste in music?"_

_"…"_

_"Detest is a synonym for 'dislike', love."_

_"Oh. Well, yeah, I do say that, but…C'mon!"_

_The Kirkland bloke let out a small chuckle, "Alright, alright, settle down already. I swear, you are a child in an adult's body, Alfred." _

_"Mmhm. Maybe." The American situated himself on the carpeted floor, arms coming up upon the couch, crossing so Alfred could rest his head on the limbs, while sapphire eyes were able to turn towards their object of affection, "Now just go on and PLAY!"_

_"Fine, fine! Thankfully, I can think of a song that I do quite enjoy…" _

_The guitar was strung, notes echoing out into the room—Arthur may not have played it in years, but it was coming back to him easily; his face was expression of Serenity, as if he was in another world; notes, a melody that was harmonious, rang out, and Alfred—both the man in this 'realm' and the ghost that had been watching from his own Realm of Death—was entranced._

_Whether Arthur knew the exact notes of the song and was able to play them perfectly from memory or that the melody was made up on the spote remained to be seem; it was better to guess that this tune was his own creation, and that it was just able to work perfectly with the lyrics that began to stream from the Brit's mouth,_

_"Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild  
Or a lifetime of worries might claim you.  
Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild  
Or the years and the tears shed might claim you._

_For the last time we have tasted  
Love's sweet tears by the fire's glow.  
If our hearts are strong there'll be  
No long good-byes when it's time to go.  
But the strongest torch is sometimes broken  
As the deepest vows aren't always spoken,  
And the greatest wounds, we hide inside ourselves  
Where they never show. _

_Dream away, child, let your dreams run wild…"_

_A pause, and Arthur lifted his head, orbs darting to his lover, "Should I stop? Too boring?" _

_"…No…" Alfred's own eyes were glowing with rapture, with awe, with reverence, "Go on, please…" He had never heard Arthur sing before this time—well, unless one was to count the other night, when they had both been drunk, and had wound up, after singing each other's national anthems, snogging on the sofa for about three hours, finally ending with Arthur falling asleep and drooling on Alfred's nose for hours on end._

_"…Alright…" There was a blush of pride on Arthur's face, and he began to play once more, a baritone coming forth, a warm sound enveloping the entire room,_

_"…Dream away, child, let your dreams run wild.  
Or a lifetime of worries might claim you.  
Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild  
Or the years and the tears shed might claim you. _

_When the Winter weds the Northern Wind_  
_The child they bear is snow._  
_And the branches bow like worried bridesmaids_  
_But the trees will grow._  
_Sun and Earth in time will come together,_  
_God will give us back our summer weather,_  
_But the mem'ries of that first sweet_  
_Taste of love pass away so slow._

_Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild_  
_Or a lifetime of worries might claim you._  
_Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild_  
_Or the years and the tears shed might claim you._

_When there's no room left to live inside ourselves_  
_Do we dream away…"_

_"So? How…How was that…?" The normally strong voice Arthur carried about his person had vanished, replaced by a demure persona, shy, and secretly begging for acceptance and applause._

_"…"_

_"Well?" He probed further, when Alfred only gave him a blank stare._

_"It was… pretty bad, Arty." A serious face, and even a theatrical and falsified sigh accompanied the statement that shook the Brit to his core. _

_"…" The jaw dropping to the carpet was classically comedic in the younger's mind, and he had to begin to hide the creeping-closer-to-freedom giggles, even more so when emerald eyes went wide, defying anatomy in a sort, while a mouth let out the word, "What…?"_

_"Y-Yeah, it was…" A snort, a chuckle, both accidentally escaping, "Was…Hehehe…" _

_"You GIT! It was NOT bad, was it?! You're just…just…"_

_"PSH, Hahaha! You really thought I thought it was-Er…" The Briton's face was the hue of summer cherries, the accompanying scowl horrendously evil and Alfred found the urge to hop to his feet, backing away slowly, "Er…C-Come on, Arthur, it was…it was a joke! I thought it was awesome, really! You could serenade me anytime, eh? Eh?"_

_"Er-" The romantic statement threw off Arthur's anger for a moment—even more so because of the lusty wink his partner sent his way, "…OH, do NOT think you are going to worm your way out of THIS joke!"_

_A chase emerged—a customary action for the duo; it eventually lead into the kitchen, Arthur brandishing the guitar as an impromptu-sword, swinging it carefully at the American's head from time to time, the more muscular man just laughing it off as lion and mouse ran around the round table, Alfred teasingly using a dining chair as a shield. _

_"You know, with that scowl and stuff, I bet you were a pirate or a mercenary in another life, Arty."_

_"And I bet YOU were an idiot in your previous round on this Earth!"_

_More stomping feet, as the two switched positions, but still across from one another, _

_"You're pretty damn cute when you're mad, Arthur."_

_"…S-Shut up! I'm furious, I'm enraged! I'm-…" A pause, then, "I'm…being held…? AH! How did you-"_

_"You know, you need to stop ranting so much, and look around, yeah? They teach ya that in the Air Force."_

_"Urgh! Let—Let me go! You wanker!"_

_"Mm, talk nasty to me, I like it."_

_"Agh!" He squirmed, trying to get out of the steel-tight hold around his chest, his back pressed against Alfred's stomach, the guitar falling out of his hands, but winding up not damaged greatly, "Alfred!"_

_"Mm, I like it when you whine too…"_

_"…Nyeh..Alfred..."_

_"Will you play it again later? It was really nice…"_

_"…S-Sure…" It was a soft whisper due to the fact that the Jones boy was pressing his face against dark-blonde hair, his own pure golden locks frazzled from the romp minutes before._

_"…Hey…" _

_"Hm?"_

_"…You smell nice…"_

_"Oh, and so only today I smell nice?" There was a teasing element to the statement, as Arthur pressed himself back , titling his head upward to face his lover with perfect eye-contact, "You're such a git, do you realize that?"_

_And whereas the ghost of Alfred's former self knew that that statement was going through the current Arthur's mind rapidly and often, here, in this dream…there was more joy encased within the words; more serenity, more…more…_

_"I love you, Al…"_

_Yes…more of that…_

_"I am going to sound like…like such a girly sap…but…there is a lot of luck about us, yes…? I feel lucky, at any case…"_

_There was more of that, too…_

_"Just…You won't…Ah, nevermind…" _

_"What?"_

_Arthur's head had moved in downcast motion, "…Just…do not leave…Or I shall hunt you do and prove to you of my former life's piracy, and-Mmm!" _

_A kiss…Yes, there were more of those too…The lanky Brit had been swung around at high speed, while Americana lips came crashing onto his own…_

_"Alfred…" _

_This…This is what could have been…_

_"Al…Oh, God, Alfred…" Kisses on a silky face, without a trace of fuzz or beard…_

_This is…Could this still be wanted…?_

_"Alfred! I…I love you…"_

_"Love you too, Arthur…"_

_Should he even want this…? When it was not his to want…? When the current Arthur was…was so different…?_

_"Alfred…Alfred…"_

_Maybe…Maybe he could…? Was he…Would he still fall in love…?_

_"ALFRED!"_

_Maybe indeed…Maybe-_

"ALFRED!"

The flashback, the past…the possible-memory-and-life vanished with a screech like that of a stuck record player, and the specter started.

"W-What?!"

"…Y-You've been staring at me for the past ten minutes…" The pout on Arthur's face could not hide his blush—it tried, and failed; "What is your problem, boy?"

"N-Nothing! Sheesh! I…I was…"

"…Yes? Enjoying the view, is that the snide comment you were going to give to me?"

A playful smirk fell upon the nineteen year old's face, "Do you want me to say that?"

"…N-No! Just…Just go and do something, for God's sake! Can you not see that I am trying to relax?"

"…Fine! Alright, fine!" Alfred threw his transparent hand up in defeat, levitating off the carpeted ground, "Man…you're so cranky."

"And you…you are so disturbing!"

"Well…Well…" He was nearing the ceiling—he was flying and having an argument with the mortal, how lovely, "Well, you're impossible to talk to!"

"So are you!" Arthur jumped up from the lounging, living-room chair, "I swear, half the time I am speaking to a child! And I know children, mind you—I have worked at an orphanage in my youth, and they behaved much better than you!"

"Well _maybe_ if you did not have high standards, I would be easy to talk to!"

_...How is this even possible…? _

_We argue so easily…How…How could I have even fallen in love with this man…He acts like he hates me half the time, or that he does not want me around…_

…_What has happened to you, Arthur…? You…You are different…Different from what Kiku showed me…Where's your pretty smile…? _

…Did I just think his smile was 'pretty'…?

"And may I ask what you are grimacing at me for!?"

"Er-No...No reason-"

"Just…GO! I'm trying to relax, and the migraine you are giving me is making it WORSE-"

"FINE! Alright, I get it!"

Both members of the duo huffed, Arthur returning to his novel while the specter floated through the ceiling, ending up, with much resignation, in the attic.

"Great. Just great." Alfred sighed as the dusty room came into full view; boxes piled on one another, sheets covering old furniture; it was everything the ghost would expect of an attic belonging to the man downstairs. Neat. Organized. But never visited.

_Sort of…like his personality…He's so cold with me. And he was decently cold when he called that guy on the phone…_

…_He's organized, neat…but…but he never goes beyond than what duty calls for…_

It was true—and despite Alfred not having many profound moments in his life, this was a least one of the few; transparent hands sparkled through hanging hat-racks, old trunks that held even older memories. Feet walked across creaky boards that now made no sound—there was no Realism there to touch them.

But one object caught the young male's eyes, and an audible gasp echoed out in the humid attic:

A guitar.

…But not just any guitar…It was…

_It was the one from…from that scene…_

…_Maybe…Maybe I can- _It was probably just a crazy notion—a stupid idea doomed to fail, and yet, the deceased male was willing to try; crazy in that way too, for Alfred was a youthful man who was fond of taking crazy chances; whether it was with wanting to be the hero, or inventing new objects, the boy had never let Fate control him—or Normalcy either.

The will in his heart was strong; fires like that never die down even after dying, and now it was even stronger. Just the idea of getting Arthur to really play for him in this reality, this real life…

A hand reached out with no hesitation—and that was the key.

Instantly, the guitar was in crystalline hands; to any other spectator besides Arthur, the object would seem to be floating in mid-air, Alfred being invisible. But no, it was being gripped tightly, as the American took a deep breath, and lowered his head towards the floor, his cranium dissolving through the boards.

He continued the motion until his upper torso was through the floor, careful not to make a sound; the guitar, since it was in the possession of a spirit, dissolved through the wood as well—not one ounce of damage springing up at all.

Transparent eyes locked onto the British male below, who had not moved from his previous spot of residence—but there was something different now.

Mutely, Alfred spied a despondent frown upon Arthur's face, eyes glazed over while nimble fingers flipped pages with little care; it was similar to a prior expression, but there was…was something _more_ here.

"Oh bugger." The Kirkland boy swore, flinging the book aside to the wooden floor without a care, a languid sigh falling onto the floor as well, while a hand came to cradle a tired cranium.

It should be known by now that Alfred was an expert at recognizing basic emotions—joy, sorrow, anger; but here…there was something else in jade eyes, and it was so fleeting, flashing by, disappearing, then reappearing, that it was hard to label.

Alfred, the hero in the Air Force, now had fear in his heart—he knew Arthur could react negatively to the suggestions that danced on the tip of his tongue, could shoo him away once more…

…But there was something about the despondency that radiated off the smaller man that screamed that 'saving' was in order…Maybe the fact that _this_ was so different from the possibilities that had been so close to being real that got Alfred's blood rushing faster, or maybe it was the fact that…that this Arthur…

"_I love you, Al…"_

That this Arthur was not…_his_ Arthur.

Not that he wanted Arthur _now_, no, that was not the point…was it not…?

He was confused now—but when was the naïve boy not confused? His brain was frying like sunny eggs, his heart and mind felt drunk on Dionysus' wine, his legs were weaker and weaker as the second passed, due to his transparent eyes locked on a frowning face that had its own orbs glued to the floor.

And sadly, ghostly bodies and powers did not include mind-reading abilities; if they had, Alfred would have been one lucky sod, knowing that Arthur's mind was just as troubled.

The Brit rarely experienced guilt—it came with the job. You do the work that is best for all, not striving on individualism; if they complained, the Kirkland rarely could give a damn—was not the whole, the sum, greater than the singular parts? You could not sympathize with those who went against you, the politician; you were doing the work for the group, not the individuals, and not their support groups. Arthur rarely cared when they would march into the offices, screaming their complaints—why feel sorry for them? They had little reason to cause a commotion, especially when he _was_ working for the good of them all. So, no guilt came when he pushed them away, feigning ignorance.

But here it was—revealing its ugly head, its Cerberus-like claws, a Chimera that breathed fire that scorched his soul; why should he feel guilty for…for that…that…dead human…? How can he? It made little sense.

_He's obnoxious, childish, rude, invades my privacy…_

…_And yet…_

There was something about this Alfred that Arthur could not put a finger on—his name rang out mute bells, far, far away in a subconscious filled with bombings of English land, a war-torn nation, and mounds of paperwork. But it was back there…and each time he spoke the nineteen year old apparition's name, it rang just a wee bit louder, but the sound still not reaching a point in the European's brain.

And maybe it was how he was looked at…Those eyes…They gave him the softest glances in the duo's peaceful moments, and 'Master' would shiver internally, feeling actually human for the first time in months, if not years. 'Servant' had no clue, though—the ghost could be such an airhead.

_They were probably so beautiful when he was alive…Oh, LORD, Arthur, what…what is with you…? Has the work drained your brain of sanity…? _

Arthur let out a deep groan; no, he could not go there—the specter had to _leave_. Vamoose. Scram. Get the bloody hell out of…Dodge? Was that what they said over there? He certainly could not stay for awhile, or even permanently.

_No, there is work to be done…No distractions, nope…none…I cannot have any, and he is CERTAINLY a giant one…I shall find out what I need to do, whatever spell I need, I shall gather it, and…and…_

…And _then_ what…? Where would he go…? Back to life before…?

_Yes, for that is where I am needed—I am needed by the living, I cannot worry whether the dead…want me or need me or…not…_

Did Alfred need him…? He had not even been consciously pondering such an idea…It was preposterous…Why would a specter—a forever-joking, idiotic specter—need _him_…?

Or…was it the other way around…?

That idea shocked Arthur even further, and his head now fell forward, both hands grasping the cranium; why was this all so complicated…? Arthur hated complications, his life far from needed them—so why did the Olympus Residents insist on giving them to him?!

It was supposed to be simple, just _simple—_and now look at it all! It was a horrible mess, it was a gigantic mess, it was-

"…Uh…A-Arthur…?"

It was a cute mess….Although Arthur would not admit that aloud; nor would he admit that he had been stunned to hear Alfred call out his name from above his body, his head lifting up to spy a half-through-the-ceiling ghost, gazing at him somberly.

"W-What do you want? I thought I told you to…to go away for awhile." His normally-rough voice had lost its fire, and the Kirkland cursed himself mutely for it.

"…I just…I don't mean to be…annoying. It's just how I am? N-Not that I'm admitting that I'm annoying, I just like people…and talking to people."

"And yes, we have already established the fact that I do not—your point to this conversation?"

"…Well…" Alfred drawled out the word, "I just…I just figured, since…since you don't have friends and stuff, that you are lonely? I mean, why summon me in the first place?"

"…I..." There was no real way to combat the ghost's statement, mainly for the fact that it was true, "…That…Alfred-"

"So I might as well…give you what you wanted?"

"O-Oh?" And why did that sound…_wrong_, in a way? The fatigue was catching up to Arthur again, yes, that was the most perfect…reason for such an interpretation. Not excuse, mine you—reason was the word.

"Well…I mean, why can't we be…friends? S'what I'm here for, right…?"

_We would have been friends, at the least, in another life…_

_Maybe I'm crazy for…for even trying, but…_

But the images of a delighted Arthur Kirkland could not be banished from Alfred's sorrow-filled mind…

He wanted that Arthur…It was true, and he needed to admit it to himself…He wanted that Arthur by his side—maybe to love, maybe not, but it was what he wanted in general…

"…I…" _No, say no…He has to go…He has to leave, I…I can't let him stay, for both our sakes; please, stop looking at me, please…do not look upon me like so…_ "Alfred, I can't-"

"Hey, before you say anything, I want to show you something." Maybe he interrupted him because Alfred knew that the Englishman would say no, or maybe it was just his attention-span kicking in gleefully again; nevertheless, Alfred melted through the ceiling fully, the British male not hiding his shock at the move whatsoever—sure, he had known the ghost for a few hours, but the movements he could conjure and conceive and initiate were still mind-boggling.

"Show me…what…?" Arthur trailed off; he need not ask further, the guitar was there, floating in Alfred's hands, and the elder let his mouth hang open, "Alfred…that-"

"I found this in the attic. Something told me that…it was pretty important at one time or another. Call it instincts, heh." The last part was a sort of…half-lie, but Arthur did not need to know that, now did he?

"…My God…" He had not even let a thought slip towards the old instrument; it had been buried away in a dusty attic for years, keeping away painful memories of a father gone too soon, "I…" And he was speechless, and rightfully so, truly rightfully so.

"It's cool! I mean…I…don't really play, but…"

"…" Arthur stood slowly, his feet dragging, as he walked at a snail's pace to his companion, "Father used to play this many a night for me…He loved music. He loved your bloody American Jazz Age, too, if I recall correctly…" A sigh, and then, "Alfred…May I-?"

He need not finish his question; the specter handed over the guitar with deft speed, it falling into a tight and protective British grip, the strings touching a chest covered in a dark-green sweater, "Thank you…"

"Sure…Uh…"

"What?" Arthur's voice, where it had been cold and demanding minutes before, was now childish and downright shy…

"…" _Should I ask…Is it crazy to…?_ "Will you play something for me?"

"W-What?" To say that he was shocked would have been stating something mildly…Too mildly, "P-Play?"

"Yeah. Can ya?"

"Alfred…I…I have not played in years…"

And where had he heard _that_ before…?

"Please? I…Yeah, I may be bored right now, but…Can ya? I want to hear you play, but not just 'cause I'm bored. I really want to!"

The Kirkland male knew that his face was red, for he could feel the blatant warmth radiating from bony cheeks; those eyes were staring at him so adamantly, downright begging him for some…some sort of music, and Arthur was battling his conscience, along with his desire—should he? Should he not? Would this…sort of interaction just push them closer? "I…I do not know a song at the moment…" And was _that_ an excuse?

"…I think I might know one." He did—now to see if in this world, in this present time, where memories were being made, if Arthur knew it as well, "Just sit."

"…" Hesitantly, the British male sat, "Should…I play any tune?"

"Yeah, just do that. I'll…I'll sing, or start at least, 'kay?"

This was silly, preposterous—He was playing a guitar, a melody that was a random conglomerate of notes, and said guitar was one that he had not even thought about in years, and the other member of this duet was a ghost of an American boy who…who…

"_Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild  
Or a lifetime of worries might claim you.  
Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild  
Or the years and the tears shed might claim you…" _Who had a downright _ethereal_ voice…

Arthur paused after making a final note, his mouth hanging open, eyes coming to lock with Alfred's, while the elder murmured,

"I…I know that song…How do-"

"How do I know? Eh, I…I get around, haha."

A mysterious answer, accompanying a mysterious situation…

"Sing with me?"

Oh, and now his cheeks were an even darker shade of ruby hue; it was such an innocent question, so why did Arthur…get the sudden image of serenading…?

"…S-Sure…"

He settled back against the couch, tuning the strings of the acoustic instrument before striking up official notes; instantly, Arthur found his voice in harmony with Alfred's, who had taken up a spot on the floor, transparent legs stretched out, arms folded together on the couch's cushions.

_"__For the last time we have tasted  
Love's sweet tears by the fire's glow.  
If our hearts are strong there'll be  
No long good-byes when it's time to go.  
But the strongest torch is sometimes broken  
As the deepest vows aren't always spoken,  
And the greatest wounds, we hide inside ourselves  
Where they never show."_

The European felt his eyes close, his hands remembering old moves when it came to playing the guitar; it was so natural, this was so natural…Why, though, was it...? It should not be, that was for certain…

But it was…

He did not notice that his ghostly companion had scooted closer, had moved—now Alfred was on his knees, leaning against the couch, as the chorus came to life once more,

"_Dream away, child, let your dreams run wild.  
Or a lifetime of worries might claim you.  
Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild  
Or the years and the tears shed might claim you…"_

But now emerald eyes opened slowly, the melody ringing out in the house; the music brought back kind memories to a young-but-sagely British mind, memories of a father who would have never let him go, had he not been forced to. A father who would sit Arthur's tot form on his lap, both males singing a random song, or sometimes just making up a song, making up lyrics as they went along…

But now…in this Present…There was someone else singing along with Arthur…

And he dare not admit it…But…

It felt _right_…

It felt so, so right…Despite the fact that his heart was beating too fast, and that he felt excited and human and joyous…Arthur knew that this was right…And he could not explain why…

Regardless of it all, the twenty-three year old mortal found his eyes locking with the deceased one's, and though he did not notice it, a smile came onto his face, as the next round of words flew from both mouths,

"…_When the Winter weds the Northern Wind  
The child they bear is snow.  
And the branches bow like worried bridesmaids  
But the trees will grow.  
Sun and Earth in time will come together,  
God will give us back our summer weather,  
But the mem'ries of that first sweet  
Taste of love pass away so slow…" _He knew he should wonder why Alfred knew this song—it had just been put out in nineteen-forty-five, so how…? Why…? It was all so confusing, so, so confusing!

…But Arthur was not thinking of that—his mind was focusing on singing along, on playing the angelic notes, the comforting tune…and he could not help but focus on how Alfred was looking at him…How the nineteen year old male had a smile the size of Pangaea on his face, moving his head dramatically while singing the words, closing his eyes rarely, for he was keeping them locked with the European's.

"_Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild  
Or a lifetime of worries might claim you.  
Dream away, child; let your dreams run wild  
Or the years and the tears shed might claim you…"_

The melody slowed down, and below his consciousness, Arthur found his body leaning closer to the other member of the spontaneous duet, a still-present serene smile on his face, fingers moving languidly, over the strings, as the last words were sung,

"_When there's no room left to live inside ourselves  
Do we dream away…"_

A final note was struck, while silence permeated the air; eyes were connected by a powerful force that neither could name. All Arthur knew was the fact that he was staring at a smiling man, who looked as if his whole world had returned to him, just because of a simple song.

…He had caused that smile…He, Arthur Kirkland, stoic Englishman who acted as if he never gave a damn about the populous' individual concerns. He, Arthur—the man who did what he had to do for the betterment of the United Kingdom as a whole. He…who had no one but himself. Who had no friends. Who had no one close…

…_He_ had done _this_…It was…odds-defying…

It was insane…

And it just made his heart beat even faster, his skin itch inexplicably, while his eyes wanted to dart about with no set target and goal…

What? That was the question-word of the moment:

What was this feeling…This inexplicable feeling…?

It…It was as if…

…_As if I have known you for a long time… Or…as if I have known you before…In another life…_

But was that a stupid idea? On the surface, yes, it seemed so—but…deep down…Arthur wondered if it was. I mean, he was a…well, a 'part-time' occultist, so was it correct for him to believe in the…abnormal? The 'Other Lives' that people talked about?

Maybe…Oh, what a word, and how often it was used upon this day!

Such doubts, such wondrous doubts that flitted about in living and dead heads, as two males just sat and stared, while the elder hugged his guitar; it was a 'shield' of sorts—to shield himself from Alfred's unyielding gaze and his uninhibited warmth. Though he could not feel the man, touch the man, there was some…sort of hot caresses emanating from Alfred, and Arthur found himself to be _touched_…

"You've got a nice singing voice, Arty, heh. Who would've thought?"

And just like that, the spell was broken, and Arthur's body started, eyes blinking, trying, albeit failing, to ignore the emotions wafting about in his soul.

No, none of it could be allowed! He…He could not afford to get close to this…this…man…This sweetly idiotic man, who gave Arthur the heebie-jeebies, but in a pleasing way—that could not be allowed!

Even if his face, blushing still, wanted to attest to otherwise…

His duty had to come first, his work, his positions…! His own emotions were not the important part of his life right now, were they not…?

_Then again, you did cause all of this because of your emotions…Were you not lonely…? Did you not want to remedy that…? So what is the problem with this…? _…There were so many problems, were there not…?

"…T-Thanks…"

He found that he could not look the ghost in the eye, and he knew not why! What was going on with him? _What_ was the problem? What were the _problems_?

"…You okay, Arthur? HEY!"

That had been the last straw for the Englishman; he leapt up from the couch, leaving the guitar on the comfy cushions. The stairs sounded out, as feet pounded into them, while both members of the duo were perplexed at each other's actions.

His bedroom door slammed shut, and Arthur pushed himself against the left wall near the door, closing his orbs, breaths coming in faster and faster.

_This is wrong, this is wrong…He has to go home…W-We…We cannot have any sort of bond…He's a dead HUMAN…He needs to go back and be in PEACE…_

…_Even if…I am starting to…enjoy his presence…_

A whine escaped the blonde's throat, and his lanky body slid downward, until it hit the floor; legs pulled themselves in, while bony arms wrapped around them, a type of security blanket for Arthur.

"…B-Bloody git…" He was unsure exactly who he was cursing—Alfred? Himself? Who really knew…?

Arthur also failed to know that Alfred was nearby—on the other side of the door. He could easily just phase through, but…he held himself back. It was obvious the Kirkland wanted privacy, so he chose not to make himself know, instead seating himself on the floor, head resting against the wall, not phasing through.

If there was one thing _Alfred_ knew, it was that he was cursing _himself_—he should have never tried anything, for look where it got him! Maybe it was just…just impossible for him and Arthur to have any form of connection now…

But on the other side of the door, the other male was thinking the opposite, warring with said opposite decision; should he try to form a connection to some ghost? A ghost that…did seem so familiar? A ghost that…that was…damn, was it endearing? Was that the adjective that was on the tip of Arthur's tongue?

Alfred was many things—he had only known him for less than forty-eight hours, and he knew that the American was an idiot, naïve, a simpleton, had bad taste in food, had even worse taste in jokes, an annoyance…

…But he was kind…He put no pressure on Arthur, which the Brit was not used to experiencing…Everyone always did so, at work, in the world…But now, here was someone who just wanted his attention, albeit, a lot, but still…he just wanted Arthur to notice him, say hello, and 'hang out'…

…Not to mention Alfred was…different. Arthur secretly wished in his heart that he was gazing upon a mortal whenever they interacted, for although he would—secretly, secretly!—acknowledge that the American had…_decent _looks, the transparency hindered his judgment. What had been the color of those locks before the body had grown cold? What of those eyes, eyes that Arthur had so much trouble getting out of his head?

But…The entire 'dead' aspect…that was holding Arthur back…And it should…

…Right?

Another whine, and the twenty-three year old let his head fall back and bang against the wall; had he not been in a fit of depression Arthur figured he would have let out a usually-obligatory 'ouch'.

He had to make a move, he had to do something…It was now or never, make a decision…

…Eyes drifted about the plain bedroom, Arthur's mind a war, reminiscent of the past War…

It was only when he spotted Leatrice's tome situated on the bedside table did he move from his position on the floor—although, he wondered if he should be concerned that he was not recalling how the book had gotten there, or if he returned it at all to the room? Had he? Ah, last night brought such a fogginess to his mind…

Seating himself on the bed, the book rested in a shaking lap, hands delicately opening the magical book; in a way, he wondered if the spell book was mocking him for his error—a stupid idea, but then again…

"…Just tell me what to do…" A torn Arthur was never a happy Arthur—his face held a grimace that looked painted-on, in a way, and his eyes were full of livid, morbid emotions, while brows crinkled into annoyance.

It was then that, finally, Zeus and Hera and every other living deity gave the British man a break, for…

"Hmm?"

A business card appeared at the next turning-of-pages, tucked in between spells dealing with botany—had it been there before?

_Now I am feeling as if someone is toying with me…Toying with my memory, my emotions…_

He could complain and fret all he wanted, but Arthur let it go—there was no point to wallowing in anger or perplexity; instead, the card came to rest between tired fingers, while eyes read,

_Sibyl Lexington _

_Bookseller_

_West Yorkshire, England_

_1-245-899-7066_

…_Ah, the bookseller…?_

That old woman from before? Why…Why would she leave him this…? Sure, she most likely put the card in the book when she had mailed it to Arthur, but why…?

Unless…No, she…she would not have thought that he would…do something like _this_, right…?

_Right_…?

…Hmm…Very interesting…

Nevertheless, this was Arthur's one shot—he could possibly get some answers now, some real and true and blue answers!

The bedroom phone was grabbed, the ebony-hued material glistening in the early afternoon light; nimble fingers moved along the dialing wheel, while the soon-to-be-an-antique phone's earpiece was grabbed, the mouthpiece brought closer.

_Ring…Ring…Ring…_

"Oh, bloody hell, c'mon pick up the damn-"

"_Yes? What?"_

"Er…Miss…Sibyl?" Oh, what a lovely start to a phone conversation! Arthur internally kicked himself in the derriere for that one.

"_Yes…Ohohoho, I remember YOU…"_ The elderly woman cackled from the other side, in a city miles away, _"Winston's little pet, eh?"_

"…Yes, ma'am. I suppose I could be called…'Winston's little pet'…" Was Arthur going insane, or did he hear a…laugh from outside his bedroom?

"_Let me guess…you need my help?" _"…Yes, but how-"Sibyl went on,_ "I knew you would be calling me, eventually. Something went wrong, did it not?" _"…Yes. B-But, how do you-"

"DO NOT question this old woman's mind, boy."

_"SILENCE!"_ A pause, thick like smog, and it was some seconds before the elderly lass spoke further, _"You have something that should not be there, eh? Something you want gone?"_

"W-Well…I…"

_"Ah, hesitation? You are fearing to get rid of whatever it is, no?" _"W-What?" Arthur sputtered, his mind running off the rails at Sibyl's suggestion, "N-NO!"

"_Do not lie to this woman, Sir. I know the truth—your tone gives you away."_

"…L-Listen, you-you-!"

_"Hm? I am…what now?"  
_  
"…Look," Arthur's voice dropped lower, jumping down the decibel-ladder, "I…I am unsure if I should…"  
_  
"Let me guess—you have a ghost?"_

"…Yes."

"_Mmhm. Sounded about right, for someone of YOUR occult talent. When you first contact me, I knew that the great Arthur Kirkland had not one iota of a clue how to use the magic I sell!"_

"Is there any need to insult me?" Normally, the man was quite charming to women—but this woman, oh…she was certainly pushing many buttons.

"_Yes, for you are an idiot. Quite an idiot. And to your…possible displeasure, I do not have the second, third, and so on books from Leatrice Dixon's collection."_

"…You do not?"

_"No. But I may, notice the word 'MAY', be able to help you nonetheless. I MAY know where they may be."_

"…Oh?"

_"Yes. And for someone who wants these books, you did not sound so hopeful there, boy." _

"…" Damn her! He had not sounded hopeful, and he knew it…! "Where are they?"

_"Around England and the United Kingdom, I suppose. But I shall tell you no more over the phone."_

"And why not?"

_"For there are other ears at your home listening upon this conversation, boy. Your…friend is nearby. I can sense it."_

"…" _Who IS this woman…?_

"_And you are sad now, are you not?"_

"W-What?"

_"You have a bond with the ghost you have summoned—something deeper than you can even comprehend, but you will understand it in time. But…you will never understand it unless you open your eyes. For it is something greater than the Gods themselves, and only the strong of heart can understand it. You are not strong enough yet, but you will be." _

"…You sound crazy."

_"Hm?"_ Sibyl then proceeded to let out a cackle, _"You are not the first to call me that, boy, so do not feel proud or anything of the sort. You may receive information from me by giving this old woman a…personal visit."_

"…You want me to drive three hours to Yorkshire just…for you to tell me where some bloody books are?!"

He was livid now—how DARE this old hag-

"_Ohohoho, but why of course! Prove to me that you want to get rid of this ghost that badly by coming on a little trip for nothing—well, somewhat of nothing. Besides, boy, did you not realize what you were getting into?"_

"Y-You…How DARE you-"

"_Ahahaha! What fun this shall be! Oh, Arthur Kirkland, you give this old woman great fun! And have a wonderful drive with your 'special friend', ohohoho! I wish I could only be there to see you two, haha!"_

The line went dead after a few more seconds of cackling, and Arthur flung the receiver down, and pushed the phone away, it colliding with a crash to the floor, while he cursed loudly, "Bloody hell! Goddamn it all!"

…Prove that he wanted to get rid of Alfred…?! And how did this woman even know that he had a ghost…?

Who WAS Sibyl Lexington...!? And why was Arthur experiencing chills down his spine at just thinking of her name…?

He—Arthur Kirkland—never had to prove anything to anybody! Never, and why should he do it now? It was clear now, he had to get rid of Alfred—look where this entire ordeal had gotten him! Now he was dealing with insane grannies that probably needed to be put in an asylum.

Storming, fuming, he stood, and thrust open the bedroom door—_Sibyl be damned! Damned, damned, damned!_—and was about to exit when he collided, in a way, with Alfred, who had stood from his earlier position, and was now giving the Briton a questioning look.

"Hey, you okay? I heard shouting… "

Arthur felt his blood freeze, his feet root themselves to the ground; instantly, he felt small in the ghost's gaze, and his hands were sweating lightly.

…_Oh God NO…This…This can NOT be happening…_

"I…I'm fine…"

"You sure?"

"…Y-Yes…" _No, no I'm not alright…Stop looking at me, stop STARING at me…_

"Okay! Cool! Uh…" Alfred awkwardly began to shuffle his feet, only to have his left phase through the hallway's wall, "Er…Hehe…Oh, uh, that's kinda embarrassing."

The appendage was pulled back in, and Arthur found himself stifling giggles, "Git. Can't even control your 'ghostly wiles'?"

"Hey! I ain't like those old crones back on the Other Side! They've got more experience than me!"

"Somehow, Alfred, I believe that a dead slug has more experience than you."

"…Wha?! HEY!...HEY…Hey, you're laughing at me!"

"Ahaha…N-No I am not!" _Oh, hell, I AM…His face, though…He's pouting, for Christ's sake…_

"You are!"

"Am not! Hehe…"

"Ya know, you're lucky I can't hit you, Arty."

"Oh?" He gave off a condescending smile—hiding the fact that he was actually enjoying the banter between himself and the youth in front of him.

"Yeah! Actually, I _could_ touch you…But…But well…"

"'But well', what?" Now that his interest was piqued, Arthur would not be refused or halted.

"Eh, nothin'." A wink was aimed at the Brit, "_Maybe_ I'll tell you later."

"Wanker! I thought I was the 'Master' here, as that bloody book stated. So—"

"So nothing, Arthur. You can't make me do everything."

"Oh, so this is a damn 'free will', issue?"

"Nah. I'd say it's a…a 'Me being a bastard' sorta issue."

"…I loathe you." Arthur murmured, stepping closer to Alfred, arms crossed in annoyance.

"Yeah, I know, haha." In return, the specter was smiling, actually smiling—and Arthur found it hard to hide a smile of his own.

What _was_ it about this bastard…? They had done little else other than argue ever since Alfred arrived, and why was that not…too troublesome in the Briton's mind? Why did it almost seem…normal for him? To argue with _this_ man?

Was it really true? That he was hesitant to let Alfred depart because there was a bond there? A bond that he actually _enjoyed_?

_Such suicidal thoughts, Arthur…ENJOYMENT? With HIM…?_

The darting of his eyes and the sprinklings of pink on his cheeks told an entire different story…his nagging conscience was now being split in half—one side saying, 'he must go'; the other—'he must stay'.

Oh, what to do, what to do…

"…_Prove to me that you want to get rid of this ghost that badly by coming on a little trip for nothing—well, somewhat of nothing.."_

Hmph. Maybe that was his answer—Oh, yes, he would prove it, alright. Or…he would prove something, by the end of the day.

One side of his mind wanted to prove itself; the other, in the same boat.

"Hey, where ya going?"

Arthur was already breezing through the hall, and down the steps, "Out. On a short trip, that is where I am going."

"Oh? Well, I'm coming with you."

"…Do you have-"

"Yep! Part of the-"

"Yes, yes, part of the bond." The Englishmen muttered under his breath, reaching for his satchel by the door, "Fine. If you must. I suppose I could not convince you of otherwise, anyway."

"Nope!"

"…" Why did he have to _smile_ like that? And tilt his head like that? "Idiot. Fine, hurry up."

Although he did not enjoy the prospect of a three-hour ride to West Yorkshire with Alfred, perhaps there would be an upside?

After all, if the subject of his conundrum was with him while he traversed England's countryside, would that not make the answer clearer…? Would it not be proven at a faster rate…?

Oh, it would be proven—_something_ would be proven, and it was going to happen soon.

Of course, Arthur just figured Fate was cracking open another bottle of beer, and conjuring up more of this, if this recent turn of events was to show anything—but who was he to challenge the Almighty?

"So, uh, where are we headed?" Alfred passed through the steel car's wall, levitating in the air, inches above the passenger seat on the left side—he would not open his mouth to say the current thoughts he possessed that centered around 'the weirdness of those Englishmen driving on the right side of the road'.

"Yorkshire—Well, West Yorkshire if you want to be bloody formal. A small village—Crofton."

"Oh? Never heard of it."

"Now why does that not surprise me? Just try to keep it down, this is an important business matter."

"Mmhm. Hey, do ya got a radio in this car?"

And so it went—Arthur knew this was going to be a very long journey, if Alfred's current behavior showed anything.

And yet…there was one positive aspect:

The car…

Suddenly felt a lot less lonely…

For the journeys to and from work…Oh, how dark they were…

"Are we going to see a lot of cows?"

"Wha?" A brow arched in confusion.

"English countryside, right? Dad always used to say 'They've got lots of cows, Al!'"

"…"

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"…Because I'm traveling with a dead moron, why _else_ would I look like I'm going to faint from an intake of stupidity?"

"Gosh—You always this cruel?"

"Heh, only with you, love—"

Eyes met, and Arthur wondered if some ungodly witch had put a hex on him—did he just say…what he thought he said…? _Where_ had that come from…?

His face was hotter than Hellfire, and Arthur could only break the gaze he and Alfred held with some reluctance; it far from helped that the ghost was giving him a wistful, mysterious smile.

Yes…Less lonely indeed.

And Arthur was beginning to doubt his earlier reluctance and thinking of loathing said companionship…

And eventually—one side of a war would have their point proven…

And two special men would come to enjoy the results very, very much…

* * *

_**West Yorkshire**_

_**Village of Crofton**_

_**Twelve-Thirty P.M.**_

* * *

She was not a witch—well, alright, why lie, she was. In a _way_.

After all, Sibyl did have her great, great, great-grandmother's genes—Miss Leatrice herself had been a masterful wiccan and witch, Master to many a spirit and ghost, fairy and troll.

Of course, not everyone could harness her magic—Sibyl had, for a time, but now in her age, she was losing her stride; and because she had never birthed a boy or girl with her late husband, Leatrice Dixon's line was ending.

But now…Oh, now, there was _hope_.

"Is that not right, Fritzy? Eh?" The old woman rocked back and forth in her old rocking chair, tea cup to her right, her golden parrot—an exotic breed, emphasis on _exotic_—situated in his cage, chirping on and off at his mistress' joy.

Oh, yes—Arthur Kirkland. That boy had talent, deep in his veins.

…Sure, it was not showing at this point, but still!

Leatrice had prepared her descendents for this coming event; the lass had written, in her last volume, the seventh volume, of her tome collection, that one day, she knew from a psychic vision, that her line would end—and an Outsider would be picking up the reigns. He would mess up, cause some chaos centered around his own life, but in time…he would be 'Greatness'.

It had not been obvious to Sibyl, at first, that _the _Arthur Kirkland was to be this 'Greatness'—but the moment he had left her store, she knew. He had specifically asked for her great, great, great-grandmother's magical book—and few knew or remembered dear old Leatrice Dixon.

But, this boy was to be tested—that also had been foretold by Leatrice; he would test his own heart, his own mentality…But his path would have already been written for him; he just needed to find it.

She knew the details, too—Leatrice had foretold of a boy's death, a love reborn, a resurrection, a turning of Time; all acts she had once done herself, but eventually, no one else in her line would be able to. But soon, this twenty-three year old politician would not just save himself…He would save all of _Them_…

But first—he had to start small; And that ghost was to be saved, despite not knowing it yet.

"Hehe…He may doubt it all now, but soon, oh, so, so very soon…"

She smiled, while a wrinkled old appendage came up to fix her silver bangs; yes, soon—And Sibyl Lexington could not wait!

Arthur would prove the trying truth to himself—sure, he would hunt down the books that her stupid late husband had sold in a fit of moronic actions—but would he use them?

"Ohohoho…"

Maybe it was better that she did not have all the books in her possession—she had had the first, even if she had told Arthur somewhat-of-an-otherwise-lie before, and that was her only piece of assistance she could give to the boy. Now, with the others scattered about England's land, he would have to trek far and wide to get them---while the ghost trailed along with him.

Not to mention, his job—he could not accomplish getting them all in one day; he had to work too, and there the ghost would follow as well. But the bigger kicker would be that he would have to have the ghost—of his supposed-to-be-husband, according to Leatrice—follow him. And what type of bonding would _that_ create, hmm?

And if things went correctly…

"Ohohoho…Come, Fritzy, we must get ready for our guests, no?"

Bones creaked as she stood from the chair, hand coming up to grip the parrot's cage, who gave a squawk, stating his mind was filled with irk at having to be moved.

Oh yes…Things were going to go as planned, alright…

Soon enough…They would.

And soon…

Arthur's real destiny would be revealed…

* * *

A/N: And there's the chapter! : D

As you can see, Sibyl is going to be an important character; somewhat here, but she will definitely play a role in the sequel to this story.

Yes—I said sequel :] It's already semi-planned out, so be prepared!

Expect a lot of laughs next chapter—It's mainly Arthur and Alfred's journey to Yorkshire. XD Oh, poor Arty, haha!

Hope you enjoy it, everyone! More to come very shortly!

EDIT: Fixed the Italics in the flashback? Apparently that got messed up, but I don't know how __


	5. Four: Of Tears, I Give In

A/N: And our ghost story returns, ladies and gentlemen! : D I loved the support you all gave me last time, so let's keep going, shall we?

Warning: Angst and fluff abound here—and maybe some touching!

…Get your minds out of the gutters! XD I know some of you went there!

Song Inspiration:

- "Rain", by Breaking Benjamin (Inspires the sadness/angst)

- "Heart and Soul", by Gary Go

- "Breathe", by Breaking Benjamin

- "Crush", by David Archuleta (Let's not ask about this one XD Just know that it is an adorable song)

- "The Perfect Mistake", by Cartel

- "Easier to Lie", by Aqualung (A beautiful song 3)

- "Keep You", by Sugarland (Inspires the sadness of the chapter—Aka, Arthur's tears. Also appropriately quoted at the end :])

_

* * *

_

_Sad men made angels of the sun, and of_

_The moon they made their own attendant ghosts,_

_Which led them back to angels, after death._

_- WALLACE STEVENS, __Evening Without Angels_

* * *

He should have really expected this; Arthur really, _really_ should have had enough foresight to realize that this journey would not be easy—he had already guessed that it would not be easy as a Californian floozy, or as easy to make as his Mum's cakes, what with Alfred being a guest…

But this…was not expected.

"AGH!"

The scream echoed out in the English countryside, and so did the loud clang of foot-meeting-metal as well, but there was not a soul to hear it—

Well…that was decently…_false_…

"…Er…You shouldn't try to hurt yourself, you know."

"Oh, SHUT UP!"

"I'm just saying-"

"And I am just saying that you should shut your bloody mouth! I do not need lecturing, _especially_ from an incompetent ghost such as yourself!" All the while, during his rant, the Briton wagged a pointer-finger at his specter-of-a-companion.

"Hey, I didn't do a thing. The car broke down on its own!"

Of course, Arthur did not need to be reminded of their situation, and Alfred heard the mortal let out another painfully-heart-wrenching groan of frustration, his foot coming out to kick the car once more, this time aiming for the wheel.

"Oh, Hell! This is all that damn woman's fault! And we're still at least an hour and a half away from Crofton, damn it all!"

"'Woman'? What woman?"

"None of your damn business!"

It was at this point did Arthur realize who he was yelling at, and how said person differed from whom he should be yelling at; the Brit let out a sigh, face morphing from rage to regret, even more so when he realized his companion was in a deep frown, crystalline eyes flowing with waves of hurt.

"…Look. I apologize, I did not mean to…snap at you." And yet, as he apologized, the Kirkland could not help but turn away from Alfred's gaze; he found himself unable to look upon the other male's face, directly in the eye. Was it guilt? Was it guilt that was eating away at his being, that gnawing feeling at his heart? It was so…_odd_; he was far from used to feeling such an emotion, and now here was a simple _boy_—yes, boy—changing it all.

"…It's fine." Alfred gave a shrug, a lazy smile on his face, "But what about this…woman?"

Arthur could not help but smirk, "You sound like a bloody parent, you know. Or a jealous lover, heh. It is nothing of that sort, trust me. She sounds as if she is eighty-years old, and she is the woman we are going to see."

"…I-I…I wasn't thinking of anything like _that_!" The American interjected, see-through hands waving wildly in distress, "What makes you think I was acting…jealous?" Truthfully, deep down, Alfred had been curious…for that sort of reason. He would never state it aloud, though, nope, never!

"…No reason, haha." The Briton let out a laugh, and then another as the ghost's expression turned more anxious, eyebrows creased, but before the American could interject more of his speech, and try to give reasons as to why his behavior had been a certain way, Arthur stopped him, speaking,

"Just let it go. We need to call a car repair-shop, that is what we should be concerned about."

"You mean we're not going to walk the rest of the way?"

Arthur gazed at the boy as if he had spoken blasphemy in the Italian Vatican, "No! Why ever would we do that?"

"Well…You said it was only an hour and a half away, right?"

"By car, you twit. By _car_! And that is if the roads are completely cleared and usable. If we walk, it will take the rest of the day, and I will be damned if I, Arthur Kirkland, will walk dirt roads to get to Crofton. Besides, how will we return back to Manchester? We must get the car fixed!"

"Okay, okay! Sheesh, pretty high-and-mighty attitude, one again, Arty."

The elder gave his younger a pout, arms crossing, "Oh, do not start with me, boy. I am not in the mood for your comments. Come, I believe I saw a phone-booth some ways back, so hurry up."

Alfred let out a sigh, his speed of flotation increasing as his companion began to march away, "You weird Europeans…"

"And pray tell, what does _that_ mean?"

The nineteen-year-old deceased one spoke further, coming to levitate directly at Arthur's side, "Just the fact that you guys have random phone-booths in the middle of nowhere, 's all I meant."

"For your information, we are not in the middle of nowhere. You, my friend, are gazing upon some of the finest English countryside—no, _European_ countryside—that has ever existed."

"…" Alfred remained mute, gazing at the sparse trees and green pastures spread out before him on either side, with electrical wires hanging high, volts being sent to the stray houses that sometimes dotted the area; they had gone from a populous area to the middle of nowhere, in his opinion, and he could hardly picture any way that the city-life would return—Ah, well, there were two good parts to all of this. One, the fact that it was nice to see Arthur give a smile at his patriotic pride for his country.

The second…

It was just nice to see Arthur smile…And it meant that there was to be more personal time with just the Briton and himself—no other human would be interfering just yet, not out here in the greenery, in the nature where there were just birds and chocolate and ebony-colored squirrels running about.

They eventually arrived at the phone-booth Arthur had spoken of, the ruby-paint glistening like diamonds as the afternoon sun was at its highest and hottest point of the day—unfortunately, the call was far from civil, at least to Alfred that was how it seemed. He had remained outside the booth while the mortal ventured in, dialing the operator, and then from hence talking to the nearest car-repair-company.

Unfortunately…

"What do you MEAN that it will take at least an hour to get your arses out here!" Arthur's scream was loud—no, it was painfully loud, and Alfred found himself jumping at the exclamation, cringing at how the living male continued to rant, and it seemed that Arthur was bordering on the line of 'homicidal tendencies'.

The Briton ended the phone-call with the words, "Just get out here and fix my damn car! You know who I am, yes? I would hate to have to tell _someone_ about your poor service, you idiotic sod!"

The phone was slammed against the booth's wall multiple times, the Kirkland letting out groans and screams of dire and pent-up frustration, and his foot found the contraption to be another lovely target, glass and metal clanging out chimes, loud chimes that made Alfred wonder, that if the phone-booth could have a soul, if it would scream in agony.

"Bloody, God-awful service!" More swears exited the darker-blonde's lips as he exited, marching over towards the ghost, "They will not be here for some time—a long time! Do they not realize who I _am_?"

"…Maybe they…don't…?"

By the returning glare, Alfred realized that his statement far from helped the situation, and he could only weakly shrug, a goofy grin on his face.

"Git. Of course they know who I am, they just do not care."

"…Er-"

"Don't. Say. It."

"Huh?"

The British male pointed his index finger at the specter's chest, "Whatever you were going to say, do not say it. They should know who I am! I help run their country!"

"Yeah, well," Alfred could not help it; he just had to say it, give this man another viewpoint, "not everyone everywhere knows who you are. I never knew who you were before I met you."

"But I am willing to bet that you did not even know who your own government officials were, you twat."

"…Well, I knew the President's name, and the VP, but no. Am I supposed to? Is anyone?"

"…" Arthur scowled, eyes darting from the ghost to the ground rhythmically, with a beat, "It would be nice, yes, to know who we are. We have worked hard to get to our positions, recognition is nice."

"…Yeah, recognition is nice. But we're just ordinary people, Arthur. Or at least, I was an ordinary person. And those repairmen? They're just…repairmen. Why should they care about who is running their country? It won't change their jobs, right? S'why I never followed politics while I was alive. It didn't matter to me. It wouldn't change my job, or my family, or my friends, or anything like that, so why care?"

"They should care, though! It is their patriotic duty to remember! It is-" Arthur stopped himself; he hated to conceded that perhaps Alfred had a point, but that was not the real reason the Englishman halted his words.

There was a glimmer of emotion in the ghost's translucent eyes, and whereas Alfred had been wearing a smile, there was nothing but a thin-line of lips, his mouth pursed together in an air of complexity and unknown.

"…Al?" He cleared his throat, trying once more, "Alfred?"

But the ghost remained silent, instead choosing to float away, and Arthur found himself internally startled; what had he said now? He hated this silent treatment—whereas hours and days ago he would have been happy and felt blessed to have it, here he was…was…Here he was wishing it to be gone!

"Alfred, what…what did I say?" Arthur followed the specter, who had decided to traverse to the nearest field of grass, floating just merely inches above the dirt and insects, and the warm pasture, his face turned to gaze upon the sun, the light passing through his body without a second thought, while his back was to the living man calling his name repetitively.

"…"

"Alfred, say something." Now he was extremely worried—before, when he had angered the dead one, they had had confrontations, and now, in this desperate moment, Arthur would have settled for one of those. This was not just odd—it was frightening, the way Alfred was not even giving him a look, or letting out a scream. "Please, say something!"

His voice sounded out with anxiety, with desperation, and where Arthur's pride normally would halt his voice, he could not help but silence said pride, and continue to step closer to the phantom, hands sweating, and now, once again, Arthur wished the other was alive, so he could at least touch the shoulders that looked so strong, gently place his hand on the back that probably carried loads and burdens in the days of living…And deep down, he would also say he wished to touch Alfred's cheek, hold it in nimble and bony fingers, caress the tip of the American's lip, and apologize for whatever he had said…

_...Oh Bloody Hell, Arthur…Why are you doing this to yourself…?_

He could blame such a thought on the extremely-hot sunlight beaming down on his head…right?

_No, no you cannot, so…why even try…? _

Maybe it was time Arthur came completely clean with himself—he would, begrudgingly admit, that maybe, just maybe…Alfred was an attractive ghost. His young face, despite it being transparent, held boyish charms, a naivety that was, to the Brit's damnation, alluring. The eyes that held a color he longed to see, the hair he longed to touch, did nothing to aid his troubling mind.

And maybe it was the kindness, too; how the American ghost would just give him a smile, after their arguments, letting it slide—why? Any _sane_ person would come to a conclusion that included never speaking to the twenty-three year old politician ever again!

So what could that mean? He knew that the boy was not the brightest bulb (Why else would he call him an idiot on a regular basis?), but still…every human had their limits, right? Unless…Unless…

_Unless they really care about you…_

The silence between them still had its icy edge, and all Arthur could do, what he _found_ himself doing, was stepping closer to his companion, his left hand twitching, wondering if he should take that chance that had begun to nag at him in the back of his brain, as Alfred stood there, the breeze around them both—a breeze that did nothing to the nineteen-year old's hair, only touching Arthur's own locks.

"…Al-" His hand was close—would it work? Would he feel the muscle underneath? Or did this sort of idea only apply to what Alfred wanted to touch?

"Please don't talk to me about patriotic duty." The male finally spoke, starting Arthur out of his mission, the living-human pulling his hand away with rapid speed, lest Alfred question him; the ghost turned half-way, a wan smile tugging at his lips, a smile that sent bolts of confusion up the Briton's spine.

"What do you mean…?" His face was a picture-of-perfect-calmness, and yet, Arthur was internally cursing himself—not only had he just been acting like a schoolgirl, a schoolgirl who was desiring immensely to touch her crush, but he _had _irked his companion with words, and as the hours passed between them, the Kirkland lad hated each and every time such a moment would occur between them—a hatred that he would not admit aloud to, for some time.

"…Nothin', just forget it, I guess."

"No, I am not going to 'just forget it'. Tell me…what did I say that angered you?"

"I'm not angry! C'mon, does this look like an angry face to you?" Alfred put on a smile, but Arthur only found himself frowning, killing more distance between them as his feet came closer to the ghost.

"No. It does not look like an angry face. It looks like a _hurt_ face. So tell me, you git. What on Earth did I do now?" There was a tartness to Arthur's words, but his eyes told a different story—a story that evidently got to the ghost, who let out a sigh, murmuring,

"I don't want to talk about it."

"…But I do. Alfred, whatever I said, I was not directing it at you."

"I-I know…But…what you said about patriotic duty…It's just…I…" And from there, the spirit trailed off, only continuing to give the living European that same smile, ghostly hands fisting into pockets of transparent pants, magically disappearing from sight for the time being.

"I do not understand." He truthfully did not, and Arthur hated it; he wished for the knowledge to make itself known, he wished for clarity, for precision, for understanding of this creature—this man—in front of him.

"'Course you wouldn't, but I don't blame ya. I haven't told you it, so…"

"Told me what? Alfred, for God's sake, just tell me _now_! I will understand, especially since I meant to not give you any offense with my comment, but I obviously did. So explain it to me!"

"…But I don't _want_ to, Arthur. I don't want to tell you about it now, or later, or-"

"_Please_."

It was one word, not shouted, only uttered softly, in a pleading tone, and the desire had become too much for Arthur; his hands extended somewhat in front of him, in a gesture of vulnerability, and he was merely inches from the other's 'body'. Emerald eyes met crystalline ones for just a second, before finding that they could no longer hold the gaze, and the grass was a much more 'interesting' target."

"…" And despite Arthur not seeing his face, Alfred was smiling once again, eyeing the Brit in front of him; his heart, dare he say it verbally, was touched—immensely. These moments with the real Arthur Kirkland brought back to his consciousness the images Kiku had shown him, of what they could have been—and now, here, he was having _hope_, hope that maybe, just maybe, Arthur really did care about him, for some unexplained reason—or were they really that unexplained?

It was obvious that there was some connection between them, despite the living human not knowing all of the connotations. There was…electricity here, the specter could feel it in his cold soul, electricity that caused him to forgive Arthur each time their banter turned battle-like; shocks that caused him to find those tired jade eyes to be beautiful, even if they had dark circles underneath them due to the massive amount of work the political-minded male had to shoulder.

This man would have been his husband—and as the hours passed, he was beginning to see why. The challenges they gave each other, in speech and actions, were addicting; no wonder Alfred, in another Place and Time, would have given anything to have moments with Arthur, even if they were somewhat Titanic-esque.

So combine it all together, and it made Alfred's next choice-of-words perfectly clear,

"…Alright. Just… Just think about it Arthur. What involves patriotic duty? And why do you think it would bother me when it's brought up in conversations like that?"

That mysterious smile returned as the ghost let out a hum, finishing his riddle-of-sorts, and deciding to sit down upon the grassy plain, legs outstretched, palms flat against the dirt, and yet Arthur could not help but notice that Alfred's body, as a whole, still floated above the Earth a few inches.

He noticed this, yes, but he also noticed that the younger male was not making this easy; the Brit was ready to shout, demand an answer—he had tried the nice-route, and now his mentality was irked, and Arthur hated whenever that had the gall to occur.

And yet…

He did not want to become daring, and start a fight; so he stood upon the grass, staring down at the specter, said specter's words tumbling over and over again in his head…

…Patriotic duty…What does involve patriotic duty…?

Brows furrowed, hand on his chin, Arthur ran over options in his brain; 'Patriotic Duty'…It usually involved Justice…Peace…Pride for your Nation…

…Fighting for your Nation…

…_No…H-He cannot mean…_

Arthur let out a gasp of comprehension, orbs widening, as a conversation between himself and Alfred was recalled, nearly instantaneously,

_"If I may ask…you died…recently…?"_

_"Mm? Yes, I did. Speaking of which…did we win?"_

_"…Win?"_

_"Yeah, win. As in-"_

_"The…War…? World War II…?"_

_Alfred nodded, his face brightening up by the second, "So did we? Did we?"_

_"…Y-Yes, the Allies won…"_

_"Awesome! I knew the heroes would win!"_

…

_Alfred…You did not die before the War ended, did you…?_

You died…IN the War…

And said ghost lifted his head, eyeing the Briton, knowing that by the shell-shocked expression he wore that all had become clear; it was only after a few seconds of staring at one another did Arthur join his companion on the ground, but not of his own volition—his knees gave out from the shock of the realization, the realization that he was talking with a dead soldier—not just a dead man.

A dead _American_ soldier that had helped _Arthur's_ nation in World War II…

It all made sense now…Alfred not knowing when the War ended…Who had won said War…And exclaiming about the 'Heroes'…

"…A-Alfred…You…T-The War, you…" He was stuttering, his left hand trying to cover his mouth in shock, and yet failing to do so at the same time.

"…Yeah."

"W-Why did you not tell me?"

Alfred shrugged, "There didn't seem to be a good time to do so."

Arthur could only turn his head away, and murmur, "Then please forgive me for my other comments; I would never…I would never have made them if…if I knew-"

"Hey! Don't worry about it!" The specter gave a laugh, "No use worrying about the past now, eh?"

"…" But Arthur could say nothing to refute or agree with what the boy had stated; all he could do was stare, for he was seeing Alfred in a new light—this was not just…some immature boy from the streets, this…this man had been…had tried…had _died_ while trying…

"H-How did it…Were you shot? Did one of those bloody Italian or German bastards shoot you? Was it a Japanese attack? Please, tell me!" He was firing questions at him, a million miles an hour, and yet…Arthur did not care; the ache in his heart came from the desire to know more, to know all of the truth, and he was begging the specter, the specter who decided to stretch out and lie down upon his back, his eyes turned upward to the sky, hands floating, yet folded behind his head, to tell him more.

"…You don't want to know, Arthur."

"Yes I do!"

"No, you DON'T! Look, you're already upset enough, I don't want to tell you anymore-"

"A-Alfred, please-"

"Look, why do you want to know so badly? It doesn't matter." The ghost proclaimed, interrupting whatever Arthur was going to interrupt him with, "I'm dead, so why-"

"Because I do! Why does it matter, just…please, tell me! I just want to know!"

"You'll just get upset-"

"I don't _care_! Tell me what those God-Awful bastards did to you! For I will bet my own life that you did not deserve it! You may think," Arthur paused, letting out a ragged breath, that type of breathing coming from his shouting rant, "You may think I am just being…curious or some other nonsensical notion, but I am not! I wish to know, I need to know!"

"But why-?"

"Because I CARE, dammit!"

…And the first tear fell from Arthur's eye, and he hurriedly brushed it away, continuing with,

"Because I _care_! You..You are telling me that you died in a WAR! A War where…where your people helped _MINE_! Because…Because I…I just...I care, alright! I am not a heartless twat, and you…you…"

_You have been nothing but kind to me, or tried to be…And look at me…I have been nothing but angry at you, or wanting to avoid you because…because I should not want to care for you, but I DO…A-And I do because you make me smile…You make me feel…feel warm and…and…_

…_Alive…_

_God Damn, Sibyl was RIGHT…_

"A-And you got killed, and…and I cannot stand such a thought, Alfred…I just cannot…S-So I want to know who…who had the gall to destroy your life!"

His knobby shoulders were shivering in distress, and Arthur found it extremely hard to look his companion in the eye; he had never meant to admit all of what he had said, but now the entire truth concerning him was out in open air—now he wanted to know all of _Alfred's_ truths.

If Arthur would have noticed his companion's face, he would have seen drop-dead shock; Alfred had never, never imagined that the Briton would admit such a thing, and with such desperation in his voice either. He was seeing Arthur in a whole other light…while the British male was doing the exact same, when it came to him.

New lights were shining in both their eyes, as they realized the truths of one another…_Finally_ realized the truths…

"…Alright. Just…relax and I'll tell ya. Okay? But I will stop if you get further sad and shit, okay?"

Arthur only nodded, becoming more comfortable on the green grass, deciding, after a moment of contemplation, to actually lay down next to the specter; whereas in another lifetime, he probably would have cared about getting dirt on his green work suit, and his black tie becoming wrinkled, all Arthur could focus on now was what the spirit was planning to tell him.

"…I was in the United States Air Force. More specifically, I was in the USAAF Eighth Air Force; we were the Bombers." The spirit let out a sigh, continuing with, "God, I can still see my plane…Beautiful thing, I had painted an eagle on her when I first got her. At first, I thought my officer would get mad, but he liked me, so he let it slide, heh."

"…You were…good at your job then?"

"Oh yeah!" A childish gleam came into Alfred's orbs, "It was amazing, I was the best of the best! Bombin' them here and there and BAM!" He shot a fist into the air, and for a split-second, Arthur found himself laughing at the nineteen year old's antics, his body subconsciously scooting closer towards Alfred, the ghost on his left side.

"I do not remember any of the soldiers I met being _that_ excited about their jobs."

"But I had reason to be! I was an awesome pilot, I took 'em down, each and every day!"

"_Every _day?" He was teasing, but the Kirkland found himself unable to help himself.

"YES! Every day—Hey, why are you laughing?"

"Hah, no reason…Go on, tell me more…Let us get back to the topic at hand?"

A silent nod from the other, and for some time, the silence persisted, Alfred gazing up at the sky, fearing to look Arthur in the eye as he spoke his next statement,

"March eighth…Nineteen-forty-four. We were going to do another bombing, another 'air-raid' on Berlin that day. I remember...We had to fly to Berlin, it was gonna take an hour, and we had to take a route over the Atlantic Ocean, so we wouldn't be noticed as easily…It was a clear day…Sun was out and everything."

"…What happened, Alfred?"

"…" The ghost turned his head to the side; he knew he could not tell his friend everything. He could not tell him how his engine had been made faulty by human hands on purpose, for the sole purpose that it would fail, and that Alfred's plane would crash and burn, his body suffering the same fate.

He could not tell him how it was murder; how someone—and Alfred knew who this male was, but, again, could not say so—had wanted the American dead, out of jealousy, out of anger, out of _fear_.

And he could not tell him how Arthur had, secretly, been the reason for Alfred's murder.

He could not tell him any of this…For the Rules stated that a specter could not.

If Arthur Kirkland wished to know the entire truth, he would have to put his heart and soul into searching for it—on his own.

"Alfred?"

"…Sorry, I spaced."

"Of course you did." Arthur was smiling, but rolled his eyes at the comment, "So…?"

"….Before I knew what was happening, while I was over the ocean…my plane's engine started to fail. It had been checked before I left the air base, so I was confused. I remember…that there was black smoke coming from the front of the plane. And I was unable to get in contact with anyone else…My communications became faulty, there was only static."

"…" Alfred paused, to turn to his companion, and was mildly shocked to see the Briton staring at him with the widest-possible eyes, lips slightly agape; although the ghost could not know it, Arthur's gears were turning, as the pieces fell together slowly, but surely.

…_H-He…He died by…_

"Before I knew what was happening, the front of the plane had sparks jumping from it, the engine failing completely, even a few flames or two coming forth—and ultimately…" A pause, a heavy swallow, "…I-In the end, the plane nosedived into the Atlantic Ocean, and…and…burst into flames…"

A gasp came from the European, his face crunching up into sadness, for he could picture every word Alfred spoke to him in his mind, the bloody picture coming into focus; there was the smoke, the fire, the water and its waves swallowing up the machine's parts, and Alfred's body.

As if the ghost was able to read his mind, the words he spoke next caused Arthur to give another gasp,

"There was nothing left of my body. It was completely incinerated in the explosion."

"…" Arthur could not speak, as more images filled his mind, and a connection was formed that caused his entire body to shake.

_T-The sea…H-He died by falling into the sea…_

_J-Just like…Mum and Father…In their boat accident…_

_O-Oh God…_

"I felt every burn, every pain though—it was instantaneous, and lasted for just a few seconds but…"

"S-Stop…" He wished to hear no more, no more of Alfred's tale, and the twenty-three year old bit his lip, wanting to hold back the tears that threatened to burst from the seams of his eyes, "N-No more, please…"

"Arthur…"

"Stop!" His resolve was breaking, further and further by the second—why was it that everyone he…he ever gave an ounce of care about had to _died_? And die by involvement of _water_?

Watery eyes could recall a dream from just a few days ago—that third body, that third scream that had accompanied his parents' own in his nightmare…had that been…would that have been…?

A limber and less-muscular body was shaking, and Arthur could not even recognize the sensation; his mind was elsewhere, his first assumptions of Alfred being blown clear out of the water—_what a horrible way to think of it!_—and these new facts were taking their places. Facts that made him cry, and sob, and not have the energy to wipe away the water droplets as they fell down bony cheeks, flushed with sorrow and rage at the world.

"…A-Arthur…" He was trying to get his attention, for he hated to see his companion cry; it was Alfred's nature to hate sorrow, in any form—especially when it was pity. He appreciated that the Brit was sobbing for him, but did he want to see it? Certainly not! No, this would not do! He hated to see Arthur cry, in any form, _for_ any form; it tore at his heartstrings, for whatever reason that was unable to be named…

…No, he knew the reason…

He knew more about Arthur than he should, thanks to the Other Side…

He knew how he loved Earl Gray, and detested hamburgers and fast food and most of American Pop Culture, including the Hollywood that was just beginning to be born.

He knew that the Kirkland loved his novels, his solitude…but when it was the right person that intruded, Arthur could most hastily welcome him with open arms.

…_I want to be that one person…_

His knowledge, his feelings…being with the real Arthur Kirkland just strengthened them, making them larger and larger as the seconds passed…

If Alfred was going to be honest, yes, he could say _it_—That he was possibly falling in love with the man beside him.

And he _was_ an honest man, so…yes. He was very, very sure that that was the case. That this was turning into accidental love, accidental attraction—and Alfred did not care if it was 'accidental'. It was here, festering and registering in his beating organ, and he would give anything to be alive again.

But he could not just want himself alive again-someone else had to want it, too.

His Master. The Man who Summoned Him.

Arthur.

Only Arthur could save him, if he wanted to. Only he could bring Justice to Alfred's death, and save him…but also only if he committed the ultimate sacrifice a mortal man could make.

But these were thoughts that should not be comprehended at that time; Arthur's sobs had increased, the tears flowing farther and farther down, and Alfred's longing to comfort his friend, his could-have-been-may-still-be lover, was at its peak—and Alfred wanted it, he wanted it bad enough, so…so…

A ghostly body moved, but it was not registered in the elder's mind; all he could picture was how a young and beautiful (Not that he would say that part aloud) life had been snuffed out due to carelessness; how dare they let this soldier fall into the sea! It was wrong, it was cruel! He knew not of murder, only of accident, but that alone made his tears want to reproduce faster.

_How…How could this happen, and to him…? He…He did not deserve it, he did not, he-_

Arthur's mind froze—his entire body froze.

For there was…something on his face.

No, _two_ things…

Pine-colored eyes blinked, moving to the sides of his face…and Arthur nearly let out a scream.

There were two hands on his face—and he could feel them.

Two warm, semi-callused hands…holding his cheeks in the gentlest, kindest manner Arthur had ever experienced.

"W-What-?"

"I told you; if a ghost wants to touch something bad enough, it'll happen. Heh."

And there was Alfred, floating above him, mere inches above his body, his ghostly hands on teary cheeks, and all Arthur could do was stare.

"…A-Alfred, you…" He wanted to bark an order of releasing—this was too intimate of a touch for them to get into, it was wrong, it was inappropriate, it was reprehensible…And yet…

…And yet those hands on his face felt _so good_…

"…Don't cry for me, please."

"I…I-"

"Shh. Just let me speak a moment." He was being hushed! And yet, Arthur's mind was in another realm—another realm where he was not to care.

"There's no reason for you to cry for me, Arthur. I'm dead. There's nothing anyone can do about it."

_That's a lie…You can save me…_

…_But you have to want to on your own, I can't ask you to…_

"B-But…"

The ghost gave the living male a smile, his body coming closer to the other's, and for a split second, Arthur wondered if he would feel the rest of the other's body—and why he wanted to.

"Hey…I'm here now, that's all that matters, right? And it wasn't your fault I died, anyway, so why are you crying?"

_Another lie…Someone didn't want me to see you…Someone didn't want us to meet, and possibly fall in love…_

…_But that's still not your fault…_

…_Right…?_

"…" Arthur remained mute, eyes falling half-way closed; he realized the other male was correct, in everything he was saying—that still did not make the situation better.

…Alfred's hands were making it much better, though…

He could feel how the spirit's thumbs were wiping away the last of his tears, how they were giving off gentle caresses, and Arthur had to wonder, once again, if he could…feel other parts of Alfred; if he could reach out as well, just as he had been trying to do for.

"…Try."

"H-Huh?" Orbs blinked at the question, eyeing the ghost hovering above.

"You want…to touch too, right?"

"E-Er…" He made it sound so perverse! Or was that the Kirkland lad's mind making it seem perverse?

"It's really a two-way street. The Master has to want to feel it, too, deep down. They have to want to feel their Servant—their Spirit's—touch."

"…" Well, that fact did nothing to aid Arthur's erratic heartbeat, or the blush that was starting to come to his face, and if he did not peg Alfred for a fool on a constant basis, he would have sworn that the ghost knew he was blushing.

"So…Just go ahead. Try it, you'll like it."

"Y-You sound like a…a pervert! A perverted old man!"

A laugh, "And that would make you…?"

"O-Oh shut up!"

"I'm teasing, Hahaha! I'm sorry…Really." That smile was sincere, Arthur knew it; and it just made his stomach feel weaker and weaker, his heart race faster and faster, and his cheeks become warmer and warmer.

And to his subconscious surprise, the Kirkland felt himself lean into the touch of one of those strong hands, nearly nuzzling into the palm that was crystalline, but felt so clear. His eyes closed for just a few second, relishing in the sensations, while at the same time cursing the deceased male above him silently.

It was only after another prodding from Alfred did the darker-blonde lift his own left hand, fingers shaking in the slightest manner, unsure exactly what his target was; when nothing made itself clear, all Arthur could do was aim to touch the ghost's cheek in the same manner his still were being treated.

…And the moment the fingers collided with transparent, diamond-like skin, sparks darted up, blue, like the lightning from nights before, and Arthur felt a stinging in the palm where he had been struck on the night he summoned the spirit before him.

…But then…Other sensations came forth…

…The sensation of warmth…

…The sensation of skin…

And for a split second, Arthur could have sworn all the colors that had once existed on Alfred's boyish face and body returned in a flash; he could have sworn that the boy had blonde hair, blue eyes, and somewhat-tan skin. But the flash lasted but a second, and the former-soldier turned into his crystalline sheen once more…

…But the sensation, the feel, of skin was still there…Just as it was still there on his own face.

"A-Alfred…"

There was a grin of Cheshire-Cat proportions on Alfred's face, and he removed one hand from the older male's face, coming to touch Arthur's own appendage, the one resting on his own face, softly, causing a tingling impression to shoot up his spine, and Arthur himself barely bit back the gasp that was teasingly wanting to come forth from his lips.

They remained in that position; hands on faces and each other, Arthur 'accidentally' nestling his face into the hand on his cheek, relishing mutely in it all. At some point, Alfred's face came closer, close enough to where their noses nearly bumped, and the Brit's mind echoed out one phrase, the phrase that would change his outlook on Alfred for the rest of time:

…_Is he going to kiss me…?_

_Oh God, Arthur…What has happened to you…?_

It was a rhetorical type of question solely for the fact that Arthur wished not to answer it; if there was an answer that the blonde wanted, it was an answer for his beating heart and the rising heat on his face—then again, he was decently sure of that answer, and it scared the male so; he had not been this scared since first being offered a job by Churchill.

Honesty would say that there had only been two times of fear in Arthur's life:

The demise of his parents.

The taking of the job Assistant to the Prime Minister.

But now…within the past seventy-two hours, Arthur Kirkland had experienced two more strikes of alarm and panic:

The summoning of Alfred…

And…

"…G-Git."

"Hmm?"

"N-Nothing…" Arthur's eyes turned downcast, daring not to gaze upon the ghost above his body, "Nothing at all."

He could try to play it off as nothing, but who was he kidding?

He was flustered…

He was nervous, twitchy, and wanted to push the ghost away…

…Oh, Who was he _kidding_?

_Push_ away? Ha!

"…Are you okay now?"

It was softly asked, and Arthur was forced, due to the sweetness and sincerity of the question, to lock eyes with the other, and give a solemn nod.

"Y-Yes. I…Forgive me, I do not know what came over me."

A laugh from the ghost, "Why are you apologizing for being sad? It…means a lot to me. That you felt that strongly about my death. So thank you."

"…W-Well…" He did feel that strongly; Arthur had to admit it now—he cared about this boy, even if he should not. And that care had lead to tears falling down once all of the truth had come out.

…Well, _most_ of the truth…

Just enough truth to make the Briton sob for death, the death of a loyal and proud soldier, the death of a man who had the heart of a hero, the heart of a kind soul…

…Which God had faulted, and caused this…? That was the question in Arthur's mind, if there was one at all.

Nevertheless, words died on the vine as hands were removed from his face, and the twenty-three year old found that he missed the contact not just immensely, but immediately. No human, in years, probably since his Mother and Father, had touched him like so, had smiled at him like so, made his heart beat like so…

…Made him want to scream at Gods like so, scream at them for a death they should have never allowed…

Alfred rolled over, landing next to the living male, legs stretched out, hands behind his head once again, that cheeky smile that still, underneath, held genuine warmth, hitting Arthur like a laser beam; the Briton knew he was pouting, for some falsified reason his brain had concocted, but it only made the specter laugh.

"What's that face for?"

"Hmph. None of your concern."

"Heh. Sourpuss."

"What? Am not!"

"Are to." Alfred stuck out his tongue, giving his companion a wink that only furthered fried the Kirkland's nerves.

"…I-Idiot."

"So you say. I would like to think I'm a very smart man, Arty."

"…" The glare the politician sent the former-soldier could have made children spit out their candy and run to their mums, while at the same time making Fate go to Alcoholics Anonymous, even if He did not want to.

Of course, because Alfred was either stupid and-or naïve, another laugh came forth, and he could only say, with a tone of hidden shyness,

"You know Arthur…You're a pretty great guy."

"…A-Ah…W-What?"

Alfred gave him another shrug, "Just…I like you."

_A lot…_

"…Well-"

"I mean, you…you were really sympathetic just now…I…I really appreciated it. And how you actually talk to me and-"

"Talk? Here I was, thinking that all we did was argue."

"Haha! Well…I…I don't mind that either, really…"

"…Are you lonely, Alfred?" Was that the underlying question of it all?

"…Maybe…But so are you."

"…" He did not reply, only deigning to give the ghost a sympathetic glance—before deciding to stretch out fingers, reaching towards locks that had once been a golden hue, and through the magic that accompanied spirits, human fingers were entwined with the tresses of a dead boy.

Alfred let out a gasp—he had not expected any sort of movement from the older man, and this was far from what he would have even pegged Arthur capable of doing. But the hand running through his hair stated otherwise. As did the fact that Arthur, the Master, needed to want to touch a spirit so badly to make it work; he had to put his true feelings into his wanting, and then into the touch.

…And that was what Arthur was doing, whether he knew it consciously or not.

"H-Hey, you don't have to-"

"Shut up." The locks were soft, and periodically flashed their previous sunny hue; Arthur had not a clue as to the 'why's and 'how's and 'Good Lord, What am I doing?'s that applied to the situation—all he did know what that Alfred had silently cried out for comfort just then, and Arthur had no choice, in his mind's eyes, but to be the supplier of it.

…_You should not be doing this, you know…_

_You…You…C-Can't…_

His resolve was slipping—the resolve to send Alfred back to where he should belong.

That smile was creating the cracks in the resolve—and Arthur enjoyed both the smiles and the fact that the cracks were being born.

"A-Alfred…"

"Hmm?"

"…It's…about what you said. That I'm lonely…"

"Yeah?"

"…I…I'm not that lonely, for the moment."

_You make me feel so less lonely, you idiot…And I should hate you for it…! You have to go home, you have to go and be peaceful…_

…_Unless this could be your home…_

…_Unless I could be your home… _

…_Unless I make you peaceful…_

"…That's great to hear, Arthur! It really is!" There was a glimmer in Alfred's eyes that caused internal shivers in the Brit's brain, and he, knowing that he should remove his hand from the nineteen year old's head, only continued to caress the tresses tangled in his fingers.

"Thank you…" A mumbling, the male looking away due to his previous thoughts—his haunting thoughts, because they seemed like such good prospects, such wonderful prospects…

…_But he is not alive…_Ah, the one factor that made everything crash around Arthur—the fact that his only true companion for the moment was dead. Gone. A spirit without a home, and barely a name.

…_Is it wrong that part of my being does not care…?_

It was unthinkable, to be even pondering such a notion—he was this close, they were just a few miles from Crofton, from where Arthur could find out the destinations of Leatrice's other tomes, and now he was considering giving it all up? Throwing away that notion, and shouting to Alfred, 'I want you to stay with me!'?

…How _could_ he stay? The Kirkland did not know this fact with one-hundred percent positivity, but would Alfred failt to age? While he would?

_I-I…I cannot do this…_

…_Even if I want to…_

Oh, and did he want to; this quiet moment, these past few moment of Serenity, all had made him see the other sides of Alfred—and himself.

He could not call it love—that was just stupid…

…Right…?

…It was wrong to call it love. Even if that was what it was.

Because that would just make Arthur want Alfred to stay _more_—want him to stay forever by his side, and maybe explore where these feelings were taking him; and that included kissing and further touches of compassion.

No, no this was not love! He had just met him, and he was not a believer of love-at-first-sight.

…But Arthur had never been in love…

So what if this was it, and he just could not _recognize_ it…?

What if he was really falling for this…this…

"You okay?"

Human...

Because even if he was dead, even if Arthur could see through him, he was still…

"…Y-Yes…I'm fine."

Utterly and wholly…

"Then why are you frowning?"

Human…

And that reason alone strengthened the possibly-sick and unwanted desires that inhabited Arthur's heart.

"N-No reason!"

Alfred had sat up, bringing his face closer to the other's, eyes locking once again.

"I think you're lying to me."

"I think you are being nosy."

"I think you're keeping things from me, Arthur."

A pout, "If I am, they are for your own good."

_And possibly my own good as well…_

"Sure, sure, whatever you say."

"Exactly! Whatever I say-"

It was so fast, that Arthur was almost positive he had not felt a single thing.

A tiny brush on his cheek, a tiny touch, a touch that was sensitive, sweet, and full of compassion…

…And it had not been created by fingers.

"…W-What was that for?"

"I just felt like it, s'all." And that damn ghost was grinning—no, _smirking_—at him. Smirking at Arthur as he sat there, blushing, touching his cheek where a _kiss _had been planted by that bloody-bastard-of-a-ghost.

"W-Well…Well, maybe I didn't want it!"

The American just let out a laugh, "You did."

"OH? And how…how do you know that?"

"Because you felt it. That's all the reason that's needed."

"…" He knew Alfred was right. He had wanted to feel it, he had wanted some…some sort of romantic gesture, and that silent admittance made the Brit want to dunk his head in the Abberton Reservoir and not come up for any air—ever again.

"Heh. It's like I said before, Arthur. I like you."

"…" He wanted to return the sentiment—there was no use hiding it. He did like Alfred. There was something about the boy that one could just not help but like. Was it that smile? The kindness he expelled like pheromones from his body? Even when he was dead, and should feel angry at the world, at the Gods…Alfred kept a joyous outlook on Life.

…And it gave Arthur jealousy (For why could he not be like so? He was constantly grumpy, and all he had was work—he was certainly not dead), along with the emotion of wonder. Of joy.

…Of love.

They only spent about five more minutes in silence—the car-repair company finally arrived at their destination, tools in tow.

There was a quarrel between Arthur and the mechanic, a fight that escalated between the two when he explained to the Kirkland that the battery needed to replace and it would cost many pounds. And it did not help the situation that there was Alfred snickering in the background, enjoying the 'cute, angry face' that Arthur liked to put on.

"Oh, shut up and get in the bloody car." Was the reply Arthur used when the ghost had the gall to even say such a thing—it hid how he enjoyed the word 'cute' being used.

Crofton was once again their destination, and in Arthur's mind, it was somewhat bittersweet—they had spent nearly an hour together, and whereas to many it would seem…non-important, to Arthur it was gloriously important.

He had learned so much…especially about himself.

Information he was reluctant to remember.

Information that could cause him to turn around and no go about doing what should be done for the good of them both.

Information that caused selfish thoughts, selfish desires, selfish wishes…

"What's the smile for, Arty?"

"I thought I told you not to call me that!"

"Fine, fine. What's the smile for, _Arthur_? And why were you looking at me, _Arthur_?"

"Brat. And do not be so egotistical. Who said I was looking at you?"

_I was…Damn it all to bloody Hell…_

"Heh." It was a small laugh, but it caused a fuzzy eyebrow to twitch.

"What was that for?"

"…Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"…Fine."

"You worry too much anyway, _love_." The laugh that followed that statement was heartily, like that of Dionysus after drinking a barrel or five of wine.

"Ah! A-Are you…_mocking_ me?"

"Maybe~"

"OH! I swear to God, I will…I will-"

"Your threat sucks, Arthur."

"Yes, well...You suck!"

"..."

"W-What?"

"Was that a bad pick-up line, or just a horrible come-back?"

"…" Arthur found himself blushing at the smirk, deciding to drive faster while muttering, "Shut your bloody trap, you whelp."

But Alfred apparently did not mind the insult, nor did Arthur keep the frown on his face for long—that was another gift of Alfred's; he found that he could barely stay mad at the boy for long durations of time.

Gifts…

So many gifts Alfred had given him in such a short amount of time…

And would he have to let them all go…? And make them just…memories shining on stardust?

Maybe…

Or maybe…Maybe there was another way…

…He would have to decide eventually…He would have to decide what he really wanted, and Arthur knew this—he knew that such a decision was coming fast, head-on, like a giant eighteen-wheeler.

…But for now, he just wanted to enjoy the male at his side…

The male who made him laugh…

...Cry…

…And blush…

…He wanted to enjoy Alfred without fear of losing him, because, in this moment, in those past moments, such a fear had not existed, and still failed to exist now…

…And soon, Arthur would have to decide if he wanted such a fear to exist…

…And he would have to decide if it was a fear worth having at all...

_

* * *

_

"_It's a bitter sweet victory.  
Lovin' the ghost in front of me."_

_- From the song "Keep You", by Sugarland_

_

* * *

_

A/N: Shorter chapter is shorter : D But it's an important one, as you can see—Arthur is starting to change his mind.

The next chapter will flow directly into this one—Our heroes will meet Sibyl, and Arthur learns some more facts—even some about himself. Prepare for some angst next time, folks! And for some adorable fluff, once again.

Thanks so much for reading! More to come!


	6. Five: Of Cowardice, I Vanquish

A/N: Another chapter coming at ya : D

This one I just wanted to write so badly, for a number of reasons; to my delightful surprise, the real village of Crofton has more supernatural history than I had even hoped to believe would exist, and it'll be told here in this chapter, both by the narrator and Arthur himself.

Plus, our boys get even closer—close enough to where there might be a revelation for Arthur soon enough :3 And lots of dialogue, and even a dream sequence.

Enjoy guys! Super long chapter is super long!

Song Inspiration:

- "Though I Walk", by Alpha Rev

- "Solitude", by Arai Akino

- "Leave Out All the Rest", by Linkin Park

- "Break Your Heart", by Taio Cruz

- "I Just Call You Mine", by Martina McBride (Beautiful song for USxUK relationship)

- "No Air", by Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown (Inspires Arthur's tears—Yes, he cries again (shot! XD))

- "Secrets", by One Republic

- "Won't Let You Down", by Keith Urban (Inspired the ending of this chapter)

* * *

"_You said I killed you - haunt me, then! _

_The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. _

_I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. _

_Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! _

_Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!"_

_- Emily Bronte_

* * *

It came off as a normal town; the first Anglican church being founded in it in or around fourteen-hundred-and-thirty. Mining a prominent business, along with agriculture. A small, petite village, the Wilsons family building Halls later used for wartime soldiers, and homes occupying Nostell Miners. It was the classic fairytale village; one could expect to see Cinderella chatting away with the most handsome nobles who had stopped in Crofton for a pint of beer, and delicious fish and chips.

But Crofton had secrets that few wished to ponder; tales of haunting murder, and a Castle that held a gothic air, and the Grey Lady who watched her visitors from her post…

Sibyl Lexington was one to believe in the supernatural, though; it had been taught to her for ages, by parents and grandparents and even uncles and aunts. Begrudgingly, her sister too had listen to the tales and folklore, of how the ghosts haunted their killers, how the fairies danced in the nearby forests of Wakefield and Leeds, but the elder Lexington lass had scorned her magical heritage as an early adult, leaving Sibyl to 'listen to that dribble'.

Dribble? HA!

The woman with the snowy hair knew the truth—those that scorned the sorcery of the wiccans and witches were blind to the Realities; they could not see the spirits that haunted Earth, they could not understand the aged texts and tomes of Leatrice and her contemporaries, and they certainly could not summon the most powerful creatures mankind had never seen, for the majority of mankind was _blind_.

And the lass believed in her ancestor—as she sat in the rocking chair in her room, gazing upon the portrait of Leatrice herself, painted centuries ago, she knew what her great, great, great grandmother had accomplished.

Leatrice had had raven hair, down to her waist, Sibyl acquiring the same genes; the latter could still picture, when her eyes closed, how her ancestor would dance in the growing Crofton, healing the sick while speaking to the dead, healing them, sending them onto the Other Side with peace in their hearts—a job that only she could do.

For there had been no other recorded 'witch' in all of England at that time; sure, there had been _trials_, but all those 'witches' had been…well..what was the word for it? Fakes? Yes, yes, fallacies. False witches—the country and colonies had hung the wrong women and men.

Somehow, though, no one had noticed Leatrice until her later years—they had labeled her as a healer for years, and because of that, many stayed away from any other accusations of darker magic. It had only been in Leatrice's early fifties did the spying begin, curious Crofton citizens finding her speaking to the air, lights of golden colors dancing about her head, as she read the tomes upon her lap, reciting spells, practicing spells, and summoning friends from Faraway Lands.

And when accused—the woman far from denied her history, and what she was. Before she had been burned at the stake, her family had fled the village, carrying her tomes, the many tomes she herself had written, had used, never to be seen again, while they themselves practiced magic for the rest of their lives, in honor of the dead descendent and wife. She herself, Leatrice, had proclaimed that she knew this was to come, that her people, her charges whom she had repeatedly healed, would turn against her and label her a demon.

"And yet it is _you_ who shall need the one who inherits my magic one day!"

And that last cry of anger had been _true_…It was to _become_ true…

Sibyl's magical vision had been dying, but within the past twenty-four hours, her last psychic premonition had come unto her…

_There was to be a fight—a fight for control of Leatrice's magic; Arthur, a year from now, would take the reins, for Leatrice's dead ghost would guide him, as would the deceased spirits he would have already assisted, and their Allies. All of the magical creatures he could harness would be there, giving him strength…While he fought a powerful enemy, the boy who had been able to harness Nicolas Flamel's alchemy, and wanted more power, more energy…And if he was able to obtain it, it could mean the destruction of much of England and the United Kingdom as a whole…_

What a surprise—she had been expecting that one; apparently the Gods just wanted to toy with her by giving the lass a vision that she had known was coming. But on the bright side, that vision did give her a confirmation—Arthur Kirkland was indeed to battle the inheritor of Flamel's abilities, whoever he was. Sibyl had tried to research such a name by asking around, but whoever the young male was, he had stayed hidden, and her dream, although it gave her a face, a boy with sea-hued eyes, wheat-colored hair, and a purple cap on-top of his head, did not give a name.

Old bones creaked as Sibyl stood, making her way at a snail's pace over towards the window in the upstairs bedroom, her shop on the first floor, along with the kitchen and bathroom of the home. The window pane held a fog of dust—she was not one for opening up her home, lest eyes wander in and spy; she was already considered a bit of a 'bat' by the other men and women of Crofton, with her bookshop's antique-esque style, and her reclusive nature. They did not need to know of her magic—or former magic, being the proper term.

Thankfully, none of them knew of Leatrice—when Sibyl had returned to Crofton after so long, there was no memory of Leatrice, and the woman was torn between despondency and joy; the less they had been told of the Dixon woman, the better, for Sibyl's sake.

But now here she was, back in the birthplace of magic, back in the birthplace and dying town of The Witch of Ages, The Golden Witch, The Witch of the Night. Leatrice had a name, names given after death, mind you, for every season, for every emotion, for every Sin that Man would have committed.

Oh, did she know of Sins…Sibyl had observed sins, not committed them—it was wrong for those of magic to do such a thing; Magic was pure, and should be treated as such. Abuse of power could result in the taking away of powers, souls close to the abuser, or even the abuser's own soul—if said power-hungry mortal did not destroy the rest of humanity before all of that.

Which was why Arthur Kirkland was the best candidate for the job—he was…well, he was not extremely pure of heart, but enough to where the World could relax, and put their faith in him; he would save his Nation, his Husband…His Everything.

It was at this time did the crunching of tires upon gravel sound out, the notes of the disastrous, faulty harmonic sounds reaching Sibyl's ears at a slow and easy pace—eyes turned downward to gaze upon a small car, and upon hearing the voice, she knew who it was—who her 'special' visitor was. Icy orbs smirked with mirth as they gazed upon Arthur Kirkland exiting his vehicle, muttering under his breath—speaking as if he wished not to be seen speaking.

"Ohoho! Oh, Fritzy!" The Lexington lass turned to her golden bird, her constant companion, as wrinkled fingers picked up the gilded cage with careful slowness, "Let's go meet our friends, yes?"

"Squawk!"

Sometimes, Sibyl wondered if the bird could understand her at all—he was _supposed_ to, and the communication was _supposed_ to be vice versa as well, but who knew when it came to summoning spells; no one paid any attention to Fritz, anyway—the public, the curious-enough public to venture into Sibyl's store just thought of the bird as a nuisance that stared at them.

"Oh, hush now. We must not scare Arthur and his little friend off!"

A cackle was let out as the woman ambled down the steps—tardiness would look horrible on her part, indeed; she wanted to be there to gaze upon the Kirkland's face as he entered her unorthodox sanctuary. Although she had lost the ability to see the ghost that she _knew_, without a shadow of a doubt, was with the politician, she could sense the presence, by her hairs upon her neck standing up slightly, and that small breeze that accompanied all spirits, that cold chill that only the Master was immune to.

She gave one last shout of joy from the depths of her throat—Leatrice would be proud and elated, if her spirit was here, in this very room…

For her time of renewal was just around the corner.

And it was time for Arthur to realize the truth that existed in the very depths of his soul—even if It contained emotions he was not too fond of…

* * *

The car sputtered and squeaked less, to Arthur's delight, but it still held that aged quality on its body as it drove past the old iron gates of Crofton, the sign swinging slightly in the breeze; neither male had spoken for the rest of the drive—Well, Alfred had tried to, but the Briton was quick to shut him down, if the conversation got lengthy. For Arthur needed the time to think, not talk. He wanted some solace in the car—solace that was rare, despite the quiet, for he knew that the ghost was gazing upon his being at regular intervals, and it was unnerving—for all the wrong reasons.

So his palms stuck to sweating profusely, his eyes gluing themselves to the road as if it was Nirvana itself, jaw clenching as Arthur wanted to proceed with the rest of the drive in that manner—of course, Alfred had to ruin it all with a,

"Your face is gonna freeze like that, Arthur."

Of course, the specter laughed, too—he bloody well _laughed_ at Arthur's expression, causing the elder to snap out of the trance he had put himself into with a scowl and a rebuttal consisting of the words 'Shut up' and 'Wanker!'.

"Aw, look, I made you smile!" had been Alfred's returning reply, and the Kirkland cursed himself—for he knew that there had been a twitch of his lips just then, so he settled for remaining mute for the rest of the plethora-of-miles drive, and now here they were, in Crofton, the car coming to a slow stop right outside the familiar bookshop.

"Well, this is the place."

"…Not much to look at, really." The nineteen year old replied as he phased through the motor vehicle, Arthur following suit the manual way.

"Well, it is a small village. I suppose a city boy like yourself would not know such a thing, hmm?" He kept his voice low—there were other patrons of the small town nearby, glancing his way, and they were sure to wonder why he was talking to the thin air.

"Heh. Not really, no." Transparent eyes glanced over the small brick homes, the various shops whose wood and mortar varied in strength and color, "I come from New York, so I don't really know about tiny places. But my family's sorta separated, since my death."

"…You know of your family?"

Alfred nodded, "Well, just my brother, if ya want to be specific. My parents passed away before I died, and after I died, Matt moved to Michigan, and then to Canada. He always preferred the cold, while I liked warmth." At that, Alfred's arms wrapped around themselves, the crystalline palms touching shoulders in the same protective manner in which his arms had done their actions.

Stupidly, Arthur almost asked if his companion was cold, his concern for the spirit elevating when Alfred bit his lip, eyes becoming wary; instead, the Briton settled for the classic, "What is it?"

"…Have people…died here?"

"What? Of course, people have died here-"

"T-That isn't what I meant," The American interrupted his companion, "I mean…have people been…have they died before their time here?"

He could not say it—the 'm' word. It unnerved Alfred, down to his very spiritual core, even after some time passing, time where he could accept the fact that that had been his fate.

Ghosts could feel when their fellows were near, and Crofton stank of secret and pre-emptive deaths and ghosts that had refused to move on; he could feel their presence, their haunting eyes watching him, the Outsider, the Summoned Ghost in a world of mortals and Others.

He could feel Arthur's stare upon his being too; a kind stare, a stare that only used to exist in fantasies, in Another Life, a Life that would never happen—or at least, Alfred had thought it would never happen.

"If you are asking if people were murdered here, yes, there were murders. There are always murders wherever you go, Alfred."

"No, not these types. I…I can feel…"

Once the trailing off occurred, the Briton picked up the reins, stating, "You can feel other spirits? Is that what you were trying to say?"

Eyes were turned to the sky as the deceased male's lips were puckered into a frown, "Y-Yeah…"

That instinct that drove Arthur mad—the instinct to wrap an arm around his companion's shoulders and whisper words of comfort—poked its ugly and monstrous head up once again, and Arthur could barely suppress the twitch that came to his face; Alfred had the face of a young boy, the body of an adult, and the heart of a somewhat-bipolar child all at once—it was…wrong, to an extent, in the Kirkland's mind. That someone could be attractive, endearing, and sometimes idiotic all at once. That was uncommon—no, it was _rare_. And that menagerie of traits was far from something Arthur had found attractive in the past, or had wanted in the past.

…Maybe it was just _Alfred_ that made it all seem so sunshine-like and bright…

Without a word, Arthur moved his feet closer, his hand barely able to resist coming out and touching the ghost, but the male halted his appendage—for what if Alfred did not want his touch now? It would be utter embarrassment, borderline on rejection.

Instead, his voice, after being cleared of cracks, came to speak,

"…There are two spirits that I know of. Do you see that school down the road?" A finger pointed to a medium-size school that retained its authenticity to the ages, its walls sturdy, but elderly, "It is the Crofton Boarding School, or at least, that is what it is called now. In nineteen-twenty, a young woman was killed there, by her ex-boyfriend. If I remember correctly…" Arthur paused, a hand coming to cup his lips in thought, "Yes, her name was Jane Darwell. We studied the case during my schooling; I was not even born when the act occurred."

"…She haunts the school, doesn't she?" Alfred returned, the words a murmur barely audible to the human ear.

The Briton gave a laugh, "Well, if you are wont to believe in legends, then yes. They say her ghost is The Blue Lady, and that she haunts the Infants School."

"I would think that you are…'wont' to believe in legends, Arthur. At least after all this."

"…" He was right—Arthur just did not want to _say_ that he was right. Who would, when they were with Alfred? "…Perhaps."

"What else is there? Are there more?" The spirit was genuinely curious, and only mildly hiding his fears; fears that were semi-visible in orbs of kindness, orbs that shone the truth clear as day to the English male, but he dared not say them. He knew that even if he spoke of Alfred's concerns, not only could it look as if he was mocking the poor boy, but Arthur knew his companion did not want to hear them—the ghost knew he was scared, but he just did not want to be reminded of it, noted of it.

So Arthur settled for the gentile pathway, and soothed his friend's—yes, _friend's_, he had to silently admit it now—curiosity,

"There is the Grey Lady; Crofton Castle supposedly holds her. If you look to the west," A finger pointed to a gothic manor house, large in fear and parapet, "you can see it, yes?"

The nineteen year old nodded, "She is there. I can feel it."

"…Can you, now?"

Alfred gave another nod; he would not go into the details, into how he could feel a woman's eyes upon him from a highly-elevated window at the back of the house. And there was a chill surrounding the Castle—there were other deaths hiding in there, murders and suicides aplenty, hangings and treacheries, and to the spirit's dismay, he could not contain the shiver that shot up his entire 'body'.

"…Alfred-"

"Other stuff happened there…didn't it?"

"W-Well, it was a holding place for prisoners in the…War. World War Two, if…you want specifics. So I imagine many…many things happened…"

Another ghostly nod as both males turned silent, Alfred's gaze locked onto Crofton Castle, arms wrapped around himself once again, while the twenty-three year old was staring at the ground, emotions warring with himself, his mind wishing for said war to end, end with a result where he knew the truth and what he was to do.

All he could think to do was stop Alfred's fearsome expression from growing—he tried to hide it so well! So, so well! He was a hero, Arthur knew that for certainty now, and to have fear was not part of the type of 'heroic codes' the American would set up for himself. But it was stabbing at the elder's heart—it really should not, but it did. Or maybe it should? Maybe he—dare he even ponder it—wanted it stab at his soul, his beating organ of life-liquid?

Maybe that was why Arthur jerked his hand towards the ghost, lurching towards the diamond-esque hand, and the instant the Kirkland could feel it, a minute gasp escaped his lips, both pairs of eyes blinking in shock—for one pair and one boy, he had not expected the mortal to even try to be comforting; for the other, he had not even begun to believe that the ghost had wanted his comfort badly enough to feel his touch.

But there it was—warmth in Arthur's hand, and for a flash, the ghost had color, had life again, hair the color of gold, eyes the color of the Atlantic, and once again, the European wished the color could stay; but he was grateful that he could at least feel the heat that still existed in the depths of Alfred's heart.

Speaking of Alfred, the fool was staring at him with the most idiotic grin that the Gods could have created; it struck a nerve—or three—with the older male, who found himself twitching for the umpteenth time since…well, whenever this cretin had arrived, and Arthur tugged the ghost forward, stating with icy venom,

"Oi, get rid of that smile, and let's go. We don't have all day, and if you want to see the rest of the town, we're probably staying the night, since I bloody well don't feel up to driving back to Manchester after all that's gone on already."

"Really? Sweet! We needed a vacation-"

"_We_? What do you mean, _we_? And this is far from a vacation, you twit!"

"…W-Well…"

"I shall have you know that there is no 'we'! Certainly not!"

"Arthur-"

"And vacation? HA! I have not had _any_ sort of vacation in years, for your information!"

"A-Arthur-"

"And another thing! Who do you think you are, g-giving…giving me a kiss on the cheek!" The Briton ignored the rising flush on his cheeks, "It was…It was-"

"I thought you enjoyed that? But, Arthur, listen-"

"I-I did enjoy that! I-I mean, I didn't! I most c-certainly did _not_-"

"ARTHUR."

"WHAT?"

"…" The ghost remained mute, merely deciding to point a finger towards the crowd of five persons, whose orbs of various hues were ogling at the ranting Kirkland, the man who was shouting to thin air, to nothing and _at _nothing, whose right hand was clenched as if it was holding some…invisible object.

"…A-Ah…" If he had been blushing before, now his face was aflame, and Arthur wished that Gaea would swallow him whole, like the hungriest shark, "G-Good afternoon, gentlemen. Ladies." A shaking bow came from the young male as he tried a smile, which just caused the questioning pedestrians to quirk their eyebrows, and exchange glances.

"I tried to warn you…" That was Alfred, and that was also an unneeded whisper, and it took all of Arthur's frazzled strength not to find a way to clobber the dead boy. Instead, he turned toward the crowd once more, speaking with jovial tones,

"Well, best be on my way then, haha! Thank you for your…er, your concern! Yes, of course, but I am perfectly fine, yes. See you, then!"

Marching, yes, _marching _towards Sibyl's store was the goal he proceeded with, still gripping the ghost's appendage—but now not with the utmost care.

"Ah! Hey! That hurts, let go! Sheesh, what's your problem?"

"It's nearly six feet tall, wears cheap glasses, and probably smelled like even cheaper food when he was alive, that's my problem."

"…Wow. Now that was a cheap shot."

"No, a cheap shot would have been bringing up your horrendous-…Er…"

"My horrendous what? Can't you think of anything of mine that's horrendous?" Oh, the bastard was smirking, and Arthur could only glower,

"Oh, do shut up. Let's just go, and I am certain I shall think of _something_ horrendous of yours soon enough."

The door was nearly in front of them, just a few feet away; and the moment Arthur pushed it open, he later noted that he could have sworn a cackle echoed out into the English air, a cackle that completely differed from Alfred's soft laugh that came forth at the end of the Kirkland's bark; not to mention, the feeling of eyes upon his being only strengthened as he entered the premises of where it had all begun…where the first book had been bought after months of searching…

…And now, possibly, this could be the place where it all ended…

Or at least where the ending began…

* * *

The chimes connected to the doorway sounded out, a bell of golden hue with angelic creatures molded onto its frame; Arthur could see dust on the floor, a chill enveloping his body as his boots stepped across the wooden floorboards. That old bat had not changed her store whatsoever since he had last been here—the counter still held the ancient cash-register that was rusting in the sunlight streaming through the wide window. Book shelves lined the walls and the entire room, while wind-chimes of the occult hung from the ceiling, their various rainbows glistening like diamonds.

The smell of old tea came from the nearby kitchen, along with ancient odors of pasta and fish; these smells collided with those of the old tomes and books, the wafting aroma of ink and yellowing paper sinking into Arthur's brain, bringing him, thankfully, an ounce of peace.

For once, Alfred was silent, merely observing with a gaping mouth; eventually, slightly to the Kirkland's dismay, the ghost wiggled his hand out of Arthur's hold, floating towards the bookshelves, a hand fading through the Reality the hardbacks and small paperbacks held, sparks of cerulean dancing up from his hands; Alfred did not try to touch again, merely settling for gazing upon the titles printed on the spines.

"So, you did show, Ohoho."

The statement broke Arthur's silent-staring, said look directed unknowingly at the ghost in his company; his body turned, and there she stood, Sibyl, with her flowing, flamboyant skirts around her waist, her silver-haired ponytail, a smirk upon her elderly face.

"Why would I not show?"

The woman did not respond immediately, instead choosing to sit upon a stool behind the counter, a grin of Snake-esque fashion painted on her face; it was only after did she set her hands, folded together, fingers entwined in a prayer-type fashion, did she speak,

"Oh, cowardice, guilt…love. All feelings that could result in you not showing."

"…Oh, shut up." Arthur managed to hiss out in a whisper, thanking his starts above that Alfred seemed too engrossed in the books to even pay attention to what the woman was speaking of.

"Oh, but is not what I say true? All those feelings could have resulted in you changing your mind; I am only somewhat surprised that you came, if you want to be honest."

"You should know by now that I am a stubborn man, Miss Sibyl."

A light laugh from the lass, "Oh, of _course_ you are. Pray, tell me, how was your journey with your ghostly friend?"

"…It went fine, not that that is pertinent information."

"Mm, of course, of course…Too bad I cannot see him." A sigh from the elder, "I am sure he is quite, quite handsome."

There was a flash of heat upon the Kirkland's face, and he scowled at the floor, hoping to ignore the stare of speckled-with-age sapphire eyes; the twenty-three year old did see an opening, and he took it, speaking in a hushed tone, "You could have seen him at…one point in your life?"

The Lexington woman nodded, "Oh, yes, at a younger period of time, I most definitely could have seen him clear as day. Now…he is just a speck of light in my tired old eyes."

It was then did Arthur notice the pathway of Sibyl's stare was not at him, but the specter that was his friend; and in a moment of simultaneous actions, Alfred turned towards the speaking duo, his senses picking up the feeling of eyes on his being; it was unnerving, the way that woman gazed upon him, with the tiniest of smiles, and he feared not only for his own safety (An odd fear, being dead, he believed), but for Arthur's too—there was something wrong, something dangerous about this shop, something about it that held hidden words and beliefs, that there were truths going unstated around these four walls.

"…Stop looking at him." It was a hiss, a quiet snarl, but it was full of malice that even Sibyl blinked and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? I may be looking at him, but I am not seeing him; does it still bother you? Tell me, Arthur…Are you possessive?"

Enraged, humiliated, and blushing all in the same moment, the Briton moved his body, to directly face the dame, who in his mind was stating 'inappropriate remarks'; hands slammed down on the counter, the man letting out a whisper of,

"That is none of your concern!"

"…Arthur?"

Green eyes flew to the calling of his name by the ghost; in Alfred's rare moment of silence, it had been easy for Arthur to forget the male was just a few feet away. But there he was, head tilted in curiosity, blinking with confusion, and in a moment of being blind to Sibyl, the Kirkland stepped closer to the specter, palms of appendages facing the boy in a comforting manner.

"Arthur, are you…Did she-?"

"I'm fine, do not worry. Her and I…are just discussing things. Not in the most gentlemanly and gentle-lass-like fashion, but we _are_ discussing things."

"But did she upset you?"

"…" The blonde with the scruffier and somewhat darker shade of gold locks merely shook his head, finding himself not only lying about being upset, but finding that words were failing to come; he could only murmur, after a moment of Alfred staring at him, for the ghost to 'not worry about it'. The American most likely did not buy such a woven tale, if the questioning gaze that had settled in his eyes was anything to go by, but he too turned to silence, nodding at his older friend; for a brief moment, weak smiles were exchanged, and the grandmotherly woman in the room was forgotten about—but that was a secret trait of Alfred's, much to the chagrin of Arthur. The room's entire occupancy could vanish, the world could vanish—it was the reason he had shouted aloud on the streets mere moments ago. They, the other people, had not even appeared on the Kirkland's radar—only Alfred had been the focusing; well, that and the act of yelling at Alfred.

"…Lots of books here." He was trying to start up conversation, and the Englishman prayed that at least one of them was—he, the normally open-mouthed politician, was mute, and could not think of anything intelligible to state to the person who had wormed his way into Arthur's heart like the fiercest parasite, a parasite that even Heavenly medical attention would not kill it.

"Yes, many…"

"…To think, I came from one of these, heh." There was a shy smile on a crystalline face, and was the Briton wrong to think that Alfred had come closer to him?

"Well, I would not give the book the entire amount of credit," A wry smile was the returning facial gesture, "I would give me some credit too, yes?"

A boisterous laugh came from the spirit, and Arthur's mouth found itself moving subconsciously to form a smile; nevertheless, another subconscious move came with the twenty-three year old's arms, they wrapping themselves in an embrace against a lanky chest—a shield, a shield that was automatic, despite the smile, despite his feet inching slowly closer, despite the fluttering of beautiful insects in his heart.

Maybe he was foolish to be here—he could just leave now, take Alfred's hand, return to Manchester, and go about his business as best as possible. He could forget about this somewhat-righteous mission to return the specter home to the Other Side, to wherever he belonged. Maybe, maybe he could…Maybe there was a _chance_-

"Arthur…S-She's staring at me again."

And once again, glass shattered in the back of Arthur's mind, emerald eyes blinking as he dazedly stated, "Hmm?"

"That lady over there. Can she see me?" There was a coating of worry with the ghost's tone, and that was enough to cause Arthur not only to remember the nearby Sibyl's presence, but to be irked about said presence; so there was no love lost when Arthur replied tartly,

"No, thank the Lord. She cannot see you detailed, but she told me that she sees you as a bright light."

"It's…kinda creepy. Can you tell her to stop, please? And why is she smiling like that?"

That statement furthered the Kirkland's frustration, he giving off a huff, moving to return to the counter, speaking loud enough, on the verge of shouting, with,

"Stop scaring him, you old bat!"

"Ohohoho, you are possessive, you poor little human." Their tones sunk down to hushed levels, both not wanting the nearby ghost to have any chance of hearing higher decibels.

"If anyone is a 'poor little human' here, madam, it is you—do you get thrills out of scaring young men that are _dead_?"

"Perhaps. Do _you_ get thrills out of having romantic and quiet moments with them?" The Cheshire-Cat grin on the elder's face caused the Englishman's hands to clench and twitch; if she had been a male, Sibyl would already have been floored with a punch, and a bloody nose.

"Leave him alone. Stop staring at him, you cannot see his face, so stop looking at any part of him. "

"Oh, but child, I have not see a ghost in ages. Can you not give an old woman a little bit leniency?"

"Not when it comes to Alfred, no-"

A throaty and raspy laugh came from Sibyl, "Ohohoho, lovely to hear that, dear boy. Perfectly said, and your red face just accents your feelings further."

Teeth were gritted, and Arthur let out a shaky breath through his nostrils, "…Enough of this nonsense. You are to tell me the information, and then I am to be on my way."

"Oh my, so, so eager! But first—You must ask your friend to leave the room."

An eyebrow—no, two—shot to the sky, "And pray tell, why will I do that?"

"Because I am commanding you to do so, _Mister_ Kirkland," Sibyl countered with, her tone devious to an extreme level, "Or I shall just refuse to give you the information you seek. You have come here for the locations of my ancestor's grimoires and tomes—I do not necessarily have to give them to you, now do I? No, no, I think not!" The wrinkled finger the Lexington woman used in the condescending manner she proffered towards Arthur did nothing to calm his feeling and rage, "So tell him to go into the next room, such as the kitchen or bathroom, or even upstairs, and I shall speak to you. And tell you more than you would have ever dreamed of hearing."

"And if I refuse?"

"…" A chuckle, and then, "Then I tell you to leave and never come back."

_But you will not refuse me…You cannot. The desire to know where the tomes are is supposed to war with your desire to keep your precious ghost with you—And I already know which side is to win, and shortly, within the week's time, I am sure of it, at the most—you shall know it as well…_

"…Fine." It was a growl of rage, and Arthur did nothing to hide his disdain as he huffed and turned away from the woman, going back to Alfred, who in turn gave him a questioning glance, along with,

"Yeah…?"

"…She needs you to leave."

"…Did she say why?"

"No, of course she did not say such a thing—do you think someone like her _would_?"

A frown covered the ghost's expression, "No, not really. But I…have to then?"

"Or she will not tell me what I need to know, so yes, you do. I apologize profusely, Alfred, I really do." The Briton's tone was sincere, solemn, and sweet—like that of chocolate syrup warmed by a fire, then dripped with snail-like slowness over a frozen treat. His eyes were full of compassion—something Arthur had had little practice with of recently, and that aspect of his personality showed in the way his mouth transformed into a small smile, shyness oozing from the tips of his lips.

"Hey, don't worry about it!" The specter tried to brush it off with a laugh, "Not a big deal, I'll just…go in there, eh?" Alfred nodded towards the open kitchen door, already beginning to float towards the entrance way, Arthur subconsciously following, hot on the specter's heels.

"Just try not to break anything, you git."

"Hey! I'm insulted! Besides, how would I break anything?"

"It is you—I know, through some ungodly way, you would break something."

Another chortle, and the American crossed his arms, "Oh, thanks. You're such a kind gentleman, aren't ya?"

"Hmm, more than you are, boy. More than you are." Arthur knew he was smiling—in fact, his smile had grown within the last few seconds, despite the fact that Alfred would be temporarily leaving his presence; _that_ fact brought a tug to his heart, and more curses to his brain, and it was hard to restrain any sort of frown or scowl.

"Sure, whatever you say, _Princess_."

"P-Princess? Why, how dare you-…"

A trailing off, a heating up of a face that held grass-hued eyes and bushy brows; he had felt that kiss the moment it had blossomed like an angel on his forehead, and now that bastard Alfred was grinning, with a laugh dancing in his eyes, and all Arthur could do was return the facial gesture with a dumb stare.

"Yeah. Princess. Unless you do prefer the term 'Prince Charming'?"

"I-I…I-"

"Heh, I'll see you in a few; just try not to kill the old crone, hah."

With a hum and a happy gait, Alfred levitated away, through the kitchen's door, leaving a stock-still Englishman to shake his head—or, at least try to.

"Ohoho! Look at you, and tell me—did he kiss you again?"

"A-Ah? That…That is none of your concern!" Although he could not hide his red face, Arthur could try to divert attention away from it, "And what do you mean by the word 'again'?

"Why, it has not happened before? Funny, for I believe I heard you shouting aloud outside that it had."

"…" The male could not refute it; nor did he technically want to—It was surprising, all of it; to see Alfred showing affection, in a somewhat-sudden manner, caused the birthing of butterflies in the Brit's stomach, and his face to smile, along with his soul. His hands would twitch and sweat—Could this really be it? Be the goal of the fairytales that his Mother would tell him as a child? Where the—dare he say it—Princes and Princesses got their happy ever after? It was so…so _childish_; to think that that was going to happen to _him_, Arthur Kirkland—Political prodigy—was just childish and foolhardy. He was never destined to have that, right? And at this rate, he doubted he would receive the job of his dreams—Prime Minister.

Or…at least, that had been his thoughts before—and they dared to linger as he thought of Alfred; it was not that he deserved better than the American boy, it was the opposite—His ghostly friend, his ghostly…crush…deserved to Move On.

His ghostly friend deserved _better_...

…_But I want to be selfish with you…_

_I want to keep you…_

…_I want you to kiss me on the forehead, on the cheek, again and again…_

…_Dear God…_

…_I think I've fallen for you, you bastard…_

"…You want to keep him, don't you?"

Sibyl's probing snapped Arthur back to reality, his feet coming as close as he could, up to the counter, his orbs glaring at the worn wood; for it was better than facing the woman and her gaze, her questioning and correct gaze.

"That is none of your concern. And how can you say such a thing?"

"I know your kind, Master Kirkland. I can see it in your eyes—You want him to stay."

His response, after a moment of silence, startled Arthur himself, for it was the last words he expected would flow from his tongue and into the air; but they came nonetheless, in a quiet tone,

"Is it that obvious?"

It was an admittance to himself as well, not just the lass standing and smirking at him; he far from wanted Alfred to go, and he knew it. He honestly knew it, and was tired, just too tired of hiding away from the blatantly obvious fact. The nineteen year old made him laugh, cry, and blush—there was joy in their relationship, sprinkled with argumentative moments, and moments where Arthur could barely contain the urge to either slap him, or kiss him.

He was a moron about sixty percent of the time, if Arthur wanted to be _generous_—but maybe that was what he wanted; he wanted a somewhat 'normal' companion, someone who was just a regular human, whose intelligence did not get him promoted on the spot, or whose connections got him into the best and brightest parties and societal circles. Alfred was just…Alfred. He did not try to hide his cocky nature, his stupidity…or his sweetness. He had just kissed him on the spot! Kissed his forehead without a care, with just a smile as sweet as honey-coated tea; there was a spontaneity in the former soldier's soul that was absent in Arthur's, which was a refreshing change; but it was more the fact that Alfred looked at him with normalcy—no expectations, no demands, nothing. And that was the _most_ refreshing wave of compassion Arthur felt out of them all—and it fueled the emotions in his heart, his attraction, his possessiveness.

"Quite obvious, to the trained eye, Arthur Kirkland. But if you want to keep him so badly, why are you here, then?"

"…There is a difference between 'wanting' and 'having to', madam."

"Ah, it is your sense of duty that is causing quite a commotion in your troubled heart, then. Understandable, considering who you are. But for how long will you be dutiful, Arthur? Hmm?"

"I…" Biting his lip, the twenty-three year old paused, finding himself whispering, "I only want what…is best for him."

"And you believe sending him back is the best? Are you sure?"

"…N-No! Dammit, no! I am not sure, is that what you wish to hear! For yes, I _am_ uncertain of whether it is best for him or not. Nothing is…It is not clear! I work best with items that have clarity, and this is nothing of the sort! This…This isn't a normal event for me! I have never had to bloody well decide if…if the ghost I have with me and care for needs to return to where he came from, or if he belongs with me!"

A hoarse chuckle escaped the blue-eyed lass' lips, "Oh, you speak of normal? Hmph. You are far from the epitome of normal, if I may say so myself. Mister Kirkland—esteemed politician, and even more esteemed assistant to the Leader of our People, our beloved Prime Minister, God bless his soul. You are twenty-three, and are the most likely candidate when it comes to our next Prime Minister, save for the one being elected in his week's election. Do you consider any of that to be in the norm?"

"W-Well, I…I suppose not. But-"

His objection died on his tongue, Arthur finding himself interrupted with, "Or what about you as a whole? A strong man, but quiet—Do you ever go out? Have fun? Or are your days and nights filled with constant work, for you fear human companionship? You fear that the men and women of this nation will get their claws into your heart, and rip it to shreds, correct? It is the reason you have turned away from them, and have turned to solitude—until now. And magic, ha! That is far from the realm of normalcy, my child, and you know it."

"…F-Fine. You did not have to drag it out like that in such a manner, but alright! Little is 'normal' about myself and my current status and situations, but that is not my point. My real point is…is..." The Briton's voice trailed off; now the admittance of feelings was actually hard to let out into the form of speech, but it seemed that Sibyl caught his point despite it all, herself speaking with,

"You are torn. Understandable—or is it? Have you ever once actually done something for yourself, Arthur Kirkland? Or your heart?"

"…It does not matter if it is for _me_. I want what is best for _him_. I am not the person that matters here, Alfred is."

"Heh. You do not see how attached you really are, do you?"

At that, the Kirkland gave a snort, "You must be joking, right? I can see it clearly, quite clearly. Why do you think I am so frustrated?"

"Then what is the problem? Keep him."

"You talk as if it is so simple! He is a ghost! He is a…a…"

"A _human_?" Sibyl quirked an eyebrow, "Son, just because he is 'dead' does not make him less of a mortal human."

"I am not a moron, I know such a thing!" Arthur hissed, finding it more difficult to keep his anger in check as the seconds passed, "That is not the point."

"Oh, but it is—He is not your typical human, so you fear that if you give your heart to him, he shall take it and…and run with it, far, far away."

"…What I fear is far from your concern, madam!" But the shaking tone in Arthur's voice gave him away—too easily, it gave him away.

"How can it not be my concern when it is so clearly visible?"

"…" All the younger could do was glare, glare with as much malice as he could muster; unfortunately, this was not enough to satisfy Arthur—his confusion muddled up the other emotions, making his wrath seem less fiery.

"Ah, so even after knowing how much you care, how badly you are attached, you still wish for the locations of the other grimoires?"

The Briton knew she was giving him one last chance to bow out, to admit it all and change his mind; to grab Alfred's hand and exit the premises permanently; a lip was bitten, a palm caressing a throbbing temple full of trying emotions, and Arthur did not know whether he would scream or cry first, at this rate. All that he did know was that Alfred needed what was best for him, he needed the best option done for his safety…His own self was unimportant; Arthur's needs were minimalistic, they had no other choice to be—they could not be something else.

"…Just give me the locations."

Maybe the metaphorical crack he heard was his own heart; or maybe it was just Sibyl giving off a haughty laugh. Or maybe Arthur was just losing his hearing with his age, that was another possibility. But the only certainty was the fact that the blonde longed for it to be either the second or third fact, not the first.

He should have known, though, if it was his heart— and that any pretty ghost—no, _human_—that could make him laugh and cry all within the span of an hour, or at the same time would break his heart.

"Very well." The lass paused, reaching into a drawer built into the counter, "I shall write down the locations. There are seven tomes in all; I do not know which one will tell you the spell that will enable your ghost to return to the Other Side, so if you do want to succeed, you must come to possess the other six, giving you thenceforth a full total. Before you arrived, I went through my old paperwork, and unfortunately for you, Master Kirkland, you will have to do some far traveling, heh. For I, of course, only had Volume One."

"…I can handle it."

"Oh, can you? Impressive. Well, Volume Two is in Gloucester, which is no simple drive," Sibyl continue with, writing the words she spoke with a shaky hand, the blue ink coming to life on the pad of paper in front of her, "Volume Three is in Liverpool, a tad bit closer to your home, I assume?"

The Kirkland nodded, "You remember that I live in Manchester for the time being?"

"I remember many things, child. Volume Four can be found in Oxford; quite a lovely city at this time of year, would you agree? And have no fear—I am writing the specific addresses of the persons or bookshops where Leatrice Dixon's work can be found."

"…Thank you, madam."

The white-haired-lass paused, glancing up with icy eyes at the politician, "You are quite quiet, Master Kirkland. Are you sure you want to do this-?"

"Yes! I do, so just keep writing!" It was a huff that flowed from Arthur's lips next, and he crossed his arms across his chest, a protective measure he had done many a moment before.

"Very well; Volume Five is in Sunderland; I have never been there myself, but I hear it is quite beautiful. And Volume Six can be acquired in the city of Cambridge, yes."

"And Volume Seven?"

"Ohoho, my favorite one of all—You shall have to travel to a lovely place called London, which I am sure you have heard of, hehe."

"…You have quite a sense of humor, don't you?"

"Ohohoho! Master Kirkland, in this day and age, we must have such a thing, yes?" Sibyl place her pen to the side, and ripped off the sheet of paper from the yellow pad, passing it in Arthur's direction, "There you are, child. Everything you shall need is right there on that sheet."

Tentatively, nimble fingers grasped the feathery piece of paper, as eyes took in the names of places and people that Arthur had never even heard of before; but his eyes were like that of a drunkard's. The words blurred, his mind wandering elsewhere, onto other subjects that differed somewhat from the topic at hand.

"T-Thank you…"

"Are you sure you know what you are doing, child?"

"…" The answer was obviously no—which was scary in itself. When did he, Arthur Kirkland, not know what he was doing? Never! Every time, answers were clear, readable and easily glimmered with perfection—but the questions were always methodical, easy and simplistic to solve; they dealt with material objections, monetary issues, population concerns—not human emotion.

"You know…before you leave, I could give you another little gift."

Arthur snorted, "Gift? From _you_? Have you not caused me enough heartache already?"

"Ohoho, child, you act so cruel! This gift is from the Heavens, and since you do not know what you are doing, it could aid you, yes?"

Without another word, Sibyl reached into another drawer of her counter, pulling out a large black chest; with a flick of an arthritic wrist, the lid opened with a creak and an exhaling of dust right in the Kirkland's face, who snapped,

"What in Heaven's name do you think you are doing, madam-"

But Arthur's words silenced themselves when the Lexington woman pulled out a silk-covered object, unfolding the violet fabric with care to reveal a set of cards,

"I am sure that you have heard of the art of Tarot, Master Kirkland? I may be a seller of magical and practical tomes, but I too dabble in the art of psychic fashions and magic, or I did in my younger years."

"…You want me to have my…my bloody fortune told? _That_ is your gift?"

Another throaty cackle from Sibyl, "My child, you sound so disbelieving! What, you do not trust the cards? Come now, we could just do it for fun…"

"Hearing that from you make me feel untrustworthy; you believe in those bloody cards, so it probably is not just for fun."

A smirk, "Maybe it is, maybe it is not. What is the harm, though? You have many questions on your mind, the cards may be able to answer them for you. Or maybe not at all! But what is the risk, hmm? You have already gone through so much, yes?"

"…" _The risk is that there…may actually BE magic in those things…I cannot trust this woman…I do not trust this woman, but…_

"Well?"

"…Fine." There was resignation in the twenty-three year old's voice, but he really did have no choice; his curiosity had been peaked the moment the subject had been breached—which seemed to happen often when any form of 'magic' was talked of. Arthur could never really help himself. But then again, this could just be a harmless little card 'game'. Who was he to worry, then?

"Ohoho, splendid! Now, shuffle the desk, if you please."

Into his hands fell the cards, and the instant the worn pieces of paper touched his nimble fingers, a shock shot up Arthur's spine; of course, he far from knew the real identity of the cards: That they had been in Sibyl's family for generations, and had actually worked with prophetic prowess. They had been Leatrice's set from centuries ago, one of the few artifacts that existed still and held the remnants of her magic. They, and her books—her _ten_ books. Oh, yes, there were three more, but Arthur could not have those yet. He was far from ready to possess them.

Wary of the smirk Sibyl was sending him, the politician shuffled the cards carefully, noticing ancient pictures drawn on both sides, of flowers and faces, passing by quickly; deep down, Arthur was torn from wanting this interaction to last and to hurry it up. He chose the latter for now, passing the cards a moment later back to the bookseller in front of him.

"Thank you, child. Now, your question?"

"A question? Alright, what am I to do? That is a question, use that."

Sibyl snorted with mirth at Arthur's 'enthusiasm', "Why, it must be more specific than that, hehe."

"…Fine. What am I…What am I to do about _Alfred_? What shall happen?"

The elder nodded, "Fine. I shall use the seven-card spread."

With no more words, seven cards were placed onto the counter, in a horseshoe-style that was akin to Tarot cards. A wrinkled finger pointed to the card on the far left as Sibyl spoke,

"The first card represents your past. Who you were, what you did." She wasted no time, flipping it over to reveal the Nine of Pentacles, a card containing a picture of a royal blonde woman, with a golden bird on her shoulder, "Ohoho…How perfect."

"Well?"

"This card tells of wisdom, knowledge and talent—which applies to your past, does it not?"

"…" Arthur remained mute, for the sole reason he hated to agree with the smug woman in front of him.

"It also tells of a lonely period of time, dear boy, and the lack of a love life, with some detachment. But it also speaks of success and recognition. Mmhm, very, very true."

"…J-Just try the next card. I already know of my past, I do not need a card to remind me of it!"

"Ohoho, but does this not prove that the cards are true? Nevermind, let us go on. The second card represents your present circumstances."

If the entire day had been 'heart-stopping' to Arthur, then when he saw the second card, the icing on the cake was complete, for it caused his body to start, his eyes to widen exponentially large, and for his lips to become suddenly dry. And his brain wondered whether this was magic—or if Fate was just craving torture from his river of rum running dry.

"The Lovers…Ohohoho! My, my, my!" Sibyl's grin was hilariously large, and the blonde lad longed to smack it off of her face, "What a coincidence!"

Arthur felt his face flash red, his breath huffing out in distaste, "That…that is far from a 'coincidence'!"

"Ahaha, you blush so cutely, Master Kirkland; pray, does your ghost friend tell you so?"

"Why you-!"

"As you know," Sibyl interrupted Arthur's rant, "This card symbolizes seeking love, finding a soul mate, a new love. It also deals with partnership and friendship. So, onto the third, then?"

The Kirkland chose not to respond—he figured the scowl upon his face was enough of an answer.

"Ah…The third card here shows what is helping your situation…" A flip revealed the card Five of Cups; the picture contrasted greatly from that of the second card, which held two happy lovers holding hands. Here, a sorrowful man held a longing gaze over his shoulder towards spilled cups; not to mention, this card was upside down.

"Hmm…Interesting. It is in reversed position, and if I recall correctly, that means you shall have a reunion with a friend sometime in your near future, and it gives way to positive outcomes."

"…Makes sense, I suppose. If what you said about something helping my situation is true, but…I am unsure which friend you could be referring to." _Because I have few friends in real life, and even fewer that I rarely see…or need to reunite with…_

"Hmm…Let us move on to the fourth card, yes?" Another flip revealed a picture of the moon, a face upon the celestial body, and in turn, Sibyl hummed under her breath.

"…Well? What?"

"Interesting—The moon deals with supernatural and psychic powers; and your intuition must be strong. In general, the fourth card deals with obstacles you must overcome, and in this case…the moon also deals with deception. Superficial relationships. And even lunacy."

"…You are saying that…I will have to beware someone deceiving me?"

"I am saying nothing at all," Sibyl countered, "I am merely the Reader. It is the cards that are stating that deception is an obstacle you must overcome. Someone who knows you may be deceiving you, child—no, not _may_, they _are_."

"…" The Kirkland said not a word; of course people could be deceiving him, he was a politician. He had more enemies than the average person, enemies that wanted him gone from Churchill's side, from any Prime Minister's side, for it gave Arthur a greater chance of being sad man himself eventually.

"Fifth card, then? It symbolizes the attitude of others." A flip, and there, in turn, a picture of a young man with ten swords stabbing his back, "Ah…The Ten of Swords…"

Arthur was not pleased by the picture on the card, and the grimace on his face showed it, "…Well?"

"…Changes are in the air, and most likely, they will be caused by the attitudes of others. You are going to be unable to resist them, these major changes, heh…Eventually, with any luck, you will find a clear, new path. But you will have to go through multiple changes to get there."

"More changes than I am already experiencing now?" He tried to brush the worry in his heart off with light jokes; but was it really working? Heavens, no!

"Heh. Sixth card is next; it tells you what you should do, which should be helpful in your case, Master Kirkland." Sibyl paused to turn the piece of paper skywards, and the moment the card was revealed, her laughter echoed out throughout the store, and Arthur feared Alfred returning to his side, fearing a commotion.

"What?" The Briton hissed, "Keep it down, I do not want Alfred coming back here; tell me what is so humorous in your feeble, old, possibly decrepit-"

Arthur cut himself off when a wrinkled old hand picked up the card, showing it to him directly; two people, boy and girl, holding two cups, a spiritual beast watching over them from the sky. And the Englishman was not stupid—he had a feeling he knew what that card meant.

"The Two of Cups," The lass went on to define the Tarot card, "A card of passion, eroticism, of romance. Of possible marriage and engagement, and of your relationship entering a new and important phase."

"…" The Brit's face was scarlet, he just knew it was; he could feel it, and from the way Sibyl's Cheshire-Cat grin grew, it must have been obvious, "…Y-You are…saying…that…that…?"

"The cards are saying that you must follow your heart, and if we are being frank, child, I am saying the same thing. What you must do is listen to your heart, and let your relationship grow—And we know the other person we are speaking of, yes?"

"But…But he is-"

"And you must stop making excuses!" Sibyl 'shouted' in her whispering tone that she had kept up since the ghost had left the room, "You love this man, and you know it, the cards know it, and _I_ know it! And if you believe in the Tarot, you will follow its advice, no?"

"…" No one had spoken to him like so ever since his Mum and Father; And Arthur could only remain mute, his eyes gluing themselves to the counter, as he murmured, "Just flip over the last damn card."

"Gladly, and then you shall be on your way. The Seventh card symbolizes your outcome of the situation," Sibyl spoke while her hand went to work, "And I am sure it will explain-…Oh, that is interesting."

Emerald eyes fluttered to the last card in the Horseshoe spread, and they widened to a degree unfelt and not done by Arthur in a long time; his lip bitten upon realization of what the card was:

_Death…_

"A-Ah…That's-"

"Oh, calm down. You simple persons, you always believe the Death card means death. All it means rebirth and transitions. You must accept change so your own personal rebirth can come forth, child."

At that, Arthur snorted, "Rebirth?"

"A rebirth of yourself—you will end up not being the same man you are at this exact moment when this is all said and done, Master Kirkland."

"…Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"You do not seem to believe me, Arthur." Sibyl countered the male's scowl with a cocky grin of her own, "You would be wise to listen to me, you know. And the cards as well."

"…" Maybe he just did not want to listen to her, this old crone who probably picked on ever poor, sapless male that walked into her store; but there was also the fact that these words…the cards…they made some sense, and that in itself was scary. "I shall be leaving now."

"Then take the directions to the books, and be on your way, young one. And take what the cards said to heart as well, heh."

"…Of course." Arthur's voice was somewhat of a deadpan, a tired tone that belonged to a body that just wanted to exit the building; feet trailed to the kitchen where Alfred had been residing, and the instant the mortal stepped over the threshold, the ghost lifted his head from the window he had been gazing out of.

"We may leave, I have what I need."

"Oh…? Uh…Good. Okay."

"…" There was something different about the spirit, and Arthur could see it from the moment Alfred levitated closer to him; there was a different sort of sparkle in those translucent eyes—or was it the lack of a sparkle? And what had changed the lad's voice? Where it had once been proud and strong, Arthur now noticed a trembling treble to it.

But be spoke naught; deigning to leave it to his questioning mind to, well, question, instead of allowing his mouth to ask.

He was a coward for it, Arthur knew it—but that was what he was, deep down. He contained the vice of cowardice when it came to human emotions; reading them, speaking of them, questioning them. And the Kirkland refused to speak to Alfred as they exited the shop—they spoke only when they were some feet away, and it was only for Arthur to tell the younger male that they were staying the night in the small village, he wandering towards the nearest inn for a room.

Yes, a coward—a coward because he knew Sibyl (and her damn cards!) were correct in everything that they had said; he just feared to act upon their truthful gospel of himself.

Cowardice was the side he had for dinner at the inn, and it was his bedmate as he went to slumber without a word to his companion; green eyes did not even register where Alfred was at the time they closed, that being another cowardly act.

He was no lion, he was a snow white rabbit fleeing the Devil of a fox—even Hades and Persephone, or Juno and Jupiter, could not spare Arthur from himself. When there is no enemy but yourself, you cannot do a thing.

Arthur could only wonder, before sleep overtook him, crawling into bed even before the sun had set, whether he would pay a dear price for his foolish games of spinelessness and his debauchery of silence.

He would receive an answer from Morpheus himself soon enough…

* * *

_He was himself, that was the first thing Arthur noticed that was wrong—his body was that of a mostly healthy twenty-three year old; where was his seventeen year old form?_

_Not to mention, he was surrounded by water; dark, crashing waves everywhere, and yet, he could breathe. Above his head was the crests of the waves, the moon's beams breaking the surface to reach his floating feet at the bottom._

_Had he drowned? No, not again, he could not have drowned again…! The same nightmare, over and over, of being unable to save what he loved-_

"_Arthur…"_

_His head turned to see the beautiful Mother he had always loved; neighbors had always said Arthur had gotten his looks from his Mum, his brains from his Father, and now, gazing upon Alice Kirkland, the lad knew it was true._

"_M-Mum…" _

_A hand reached out to touch the woman he had been unable to save, but the moment fingers touched, the deceased woman vanished, morphing into bubbles of all shapes and sizes, each three-dimensional sphere floating towards the surface, Arthur letting out a scream at the instantaneous change._

"_Son…" _

_His father was next to catch his eye, but even before Arthur could reach out or call his name, the elder went through the same changes as his wife, but he himself let out a painful scream at the change, a scream that struck the Kirkland boy's core, he himself yelling out,_

_"NO!"_

_His voice was muffled, and as the seconds passed, Arthur felt as if he was choking on Nothingness; the air around him was tight, hot, and disgustingly humid, and there was no way out—and soon enough, when the next voice was to speak up, he would wish for such an exit._

"_Arthur!"_

_Slowly, pine-tree colored eyes turned to gaze upon the figure calling to him—Alfred; oh, but it was not his Alfred completely, for this Alfred was real…_

_This Alfred was ALIVE…_

_Sunlit-blonde tresses, paired with orbs the color of the ocean; his skin somewhat kissed-by-the-sun, a light tan that sent envy up Arthur's spine; his glasses reflected moonbeams from Artemis, his smile visible even in the darkest depths of the ocean. And his clothes! They were the same from his ghost-form, and yet, there was color! A brown bomber jacket, a white dress shirt with casual slacks, and even a dark-ebony tie._

"_Al…Alfred!"_

_Instantly, it was as if there was a ray of light in this dreary situation for Arthur as he ran towards his closest friend, his secret love; but the light died the instant the Kirkland took his first step, for Alfred's smile faded—and his color began to as well._

"…_W-What-?" _

_"I have to go, Arthur…"_

_Confusion painted the Briton's expression, "W-What? N-No! No, you cannot go!"_

"_But I have to." _

_Arthur ran closer to the nineteen year old boy that was fading away, faster and faster, by the second, "N-No you do not! I…I am the Master, yes? You do not have to go, then, for I do not want you to go!"_

_Alfred did not answer right away, the silence tearing at the European's heart; when Alfred did speak up, his words did nothing to sooth the ripping pain Arthur held,_

"_I thought you did want me to go…" _

_"I…I…NO! Of course not!" His dream-self was admitting what the real Arthur was too much of a cowardly bastard to say, "I…I would not want you to go, so don't!"_

"…_But I have to, Arthur. You're the 'Master', but you're not in charge as much as you think you are."_

"_That…That is bollocks, Alfred!" Shaking hands latched themselves onto the edges of the jacket, the color in the article of the clothing turning more and more transparent as the seconds passed, "I..I do not want you to go! I love you, dammit!"_

_A flash of surprise in both pairs of eyes, and a somber smile blossomed on Alfred's face, "I love you too, Arthur. I always have, and you're the best…you're the best person for me. But I have to go." _

_"Not if you don't want to! And I don't want you to, so can you not fight it?"_

"_Of course I don't want to go, but I have to go. I'm…I'm sorry."_

_A screech tore from the Englishman's throat, "Dammit, Alfred, don't go! I'm here laying out my entire bloody soul for you and you say you have to GO?"_

"_I have no choice, Arthur…If it was up to me, I'd already be with you."_

"_Then whoever wishes you to go back can go to Hell!" He was screaming, and tears were falling, and his hands were gripping the boy even tighter—despite Arthur beginning to be able to see his fingers through the material, "Don't…Don't LEAVE me. You are not going to be like everyone else!"_

"_You…don't want me to be like everyone else?" _

_A scoff, "Of course not, you dunce! Did I not just say that I love you? You changed me, you incompetent, adorable fool, and I will be sent to the seventh circle of Hell before I go back!"_

"…_Then do something about it, Arthur." _

_Eyebrows quirked in questioning, "What do you mean…?"_

"_You wanted to send me back, right?" _

_"W-Well, yes, but-"_

_"Then find a way to save me, if it is what you want." A ghostly (Horrible way to put it, yes?) smile came upon Alfred's face, it holding mysteries and destines unknown._

_"I thought you said that…that there were Others in charge…? That I was not in charge as much as I believed…?" _

_"There are others, and one day, you'll probably meet them, heh. And if you have the power that I think you do, you might be able to change their minds. You might be able to save me. But for now…I have to go."_

_"...N-No! Wait, what do you mean-"_

_It was too late though—Alfred, giving a last goodbye, whispered four words the real Arthur longed to hear,_

"_I love you too…"_

_Another scream was unleashed from the Briton as he was finally unable to hold onto Alfred, the boy, instead of turning into bubbles like his deceased parents, merely morphed into steam, floating upwards towards the surface of the ocean, while Arthur merely yelled and cried out, begging for the American to return to his side; eventually, his body collapsed to the sea's floor, hands and knees digging into the rust-colored sand the body of water held._

_He was wishing for sweet release from this prison; Arthur could not remove the images of Alfred from his eyes, his wet eyes, and the stifling water around him had turned icy cold once the Kirkland male was alone in this sea of darkness._

_Sweet release did come forth—the water surrounding the politician retreated, and rose, steadily, wave upon wave stacking upon each other, building up massive walls of power that Poseidon longed to unleash upon Arthur; said male noticed the retreating water, but too later—and it was too late to scream for help, to scream for Alfred, to scream that the chariot carrying the skeleton of Death, who was atop the tallest wave, was coming to take him away…_

_It was just too late in general…_

_It was too late to stop the waves, as they crashed atop of Arthur, drowning him, suffocating him._

_It was-_

* * *

The scream erupted from his lungs, Arthur's body jolting awake, he sitting upright on the spot, body and pajamas drenched in sweat; his stomach lurching and tumbling like a French circus act, and the Englishman wondered if he was really going to vomit. Not only that, but there were real tears in his eyes, he could feel them upon his cheeks.

Breathing raggedly, lanky arms wrapped around an even lankier body, while Arthur hung his head, eyes training themselves upon the bed sheets; after a minute of silence and staring, green orbs flowed to the hanging clock on the wall, the hands showing that it was a quarter past two in the morn. The moon, high in the sky, as it had been in the dream mere moments before.

It was at this time Arthur noticed something peculiar, and extremely alarming—the room was empty, save for him. And a vague recollection in the recesses of Arthur's mind told him that it had _not_ been empty before he had fallen asleep. Yes…Yes, he could blurrily, and just barely, see Alfred standing by the window, a small frown upon his face…

…_No…Where…Where is he…?_

Alfred was gone.

Fear clawed its way into the Englishman's heart as the dream from before hit him like a ten-wheeler truck, crunching his bones and body under its weight; it was as if the Ten of Swords had come to life, and each were sinking into his back.

…_No…_

"A-Al? Alfred?" His voice was hoarse, and after clearing his throat, Arthur tried again, slowly climbing out of the bed, "Alfred?"

Stillness was the only reply Arthur received as his feet touched the cold, wooden floor; he really was not here.

"…A-Al?" The stutter in his voice was obvious, as the Kirkland took one last gaze around the room before opening the door to gaze down the second-floor hallway; the other residents of the inn had their doors closed, and Arthur hypothesized the ghost would not be spying on others, he seemed not the type to do that sort of activity. But it was the fact that the hallway itself was deserted that truly disturbed Arthur—the ghost was not sleeping outside the twenty-three year old's room, nor was he floating in the hallway at a lazy pace.

"A-Alfred!" Now fear was causing internal bleeding, and Arthur had to use all his mental strength to keep his voice from reaching higher decibels as his feet began to traverse the thin hallway, towards the stairs, the ghost's name on his lips the entire way towards the destination.

_Where ARE you, you bloody imbecile…?_

Had something happened? Had his dream been a premonition to Arthur's ultimate destruction?

Pounding down the steps, he called out the specter's name once again, hoping that he would at least be answered eventually, but to Arthur's dismay, the ghost was not on the first floor of the inn, where the small restaurant was located; nor did any of the other residents become disturbed, only a few grunts and groans answered Arthur's calls.

"A-ALFRED?" That time, his voice broke the barrier of muted callings, for worry was here, and now, in the present; where was his ghostly friend? His ghostly crush? Love? Oh, damn it all, was this his fault? Should he have confessed his fatal-esque attraction sooner?

There was one last hope for Arthur, as he bolted for the inn's front door, and it rested with the outside realm; he did not care that the door banged against the wall, nor that his feet were bare against the splintering wood and dirt, all that mattered were the answers he sought.

"Alfred? Al?"

_No, no…he's not here, he's gone, he's gone, he's-_

"…Arthur?"

A gasp, and Arthur's head whipped about, his emerald eyes barely holding back the wetness they had been creating for the past five minutes; there floated a bewildered Alfred, blinking, slightly gaping at the mortal man in his sleeping tartan pajamas, his frazzle hair, cheeks flushed with upset feelings and worry.

"…A-Alfred!"

He did not walk, Arthur ran—ran like the seventeen-year old Arthur had run to the docks so, so long ago.

"Arthur? What's wrong, have you been crying—AGH!"

"OW!"

The Kirkland figured he should have known better; really, really should have known better. In the heat of the moment, in all of his frustration, his admittance to the truth, all he had wanted was a _hug_ from the specter before him. A calming, reassuring, gentile hug, and that did not _seem_ so hard. But when Arthur's forehead had rammed into the front wall of the inn before him, his body having phased right through Alfred's form, he let out a whine—a whine he would later tell the American that 'had never occurred'.

"Oh God, are you okay?"

"You git, of course I'm NOT okay! I ran into a wall! And I've been bloody well looking for you all over the place, you tosser, you moronic, horrible, horrible imbecile! You...You!"

_Oh, bloody Hell, Arthur…_

The dams behind tired eyelids finally broke, and the tears flowed freely, causing the ghost present to let out a gasp, and come as close as possible, letting out,

"Arthur? Arthur, don't cry! I-I'm sorry, I…I just wasn't expecting it, that's why you went through me, and…and…"

"Y-You…You…Do you realize how worried I've been? And…And why didn't you talk to me at all during the second half of the day, hmm? You've been silent ever since we left that old bat's place!"

"…"

"…W-What?" Alfred had turned his head away, gaze training itself to the ground, and Arthur's voice sunk lower, trembling, "A-Alfred?" Had he upset the spirit _again_?

"…S'nothing."

"…You are a horrible liar-"

"It's just…" Alfred paused, sighing, "I…You said you were looking for me, and…I…I heard…"

His mind was still semi-sleepy, yet it did not take long for the comprehension to come forth, it dawning on Arthur's face like the rising sun would in four hours, "Oh my Lord…You heard…what she and I were…speaking of? What Sibyl and I said?"

_How much did you hear…? Did you hear the parts where I confessed that I care about you…?_

"…I only heard you talking about the books. And that you wanted me gone."

"…" He was a fool; a cowardly, not-deserving-of-anything fool, and he, Arthur Kirkland, knew it; he could only step closer to his companion and…say what? He could not deny what he had been speaking of, what he had been thinking of. All he could say was, "…I am sorry."

"For what? It's natural, I guess. You wanted a ghost gone, so you found out how to do it, right?" Alfred shrugged; he was trying to be nonchalant, but he was so transparent—in the metaphorical sense—that Arthur saw through him, and his eyes wetted themselves once again.

"In a way…B-But, Alfred, I-"

"You don't have to explain yourself," A wry laugh from the specter's lips, "I shouldn't have expected anything different; days ago, I knew you'd probably find a way to get rid of me."

"Alfred-"

"I'm just…a ghost after all. S'not a surprise."

"Al-"

"So if it makes you happy, I guess I could go-"

And with those final words, the Kirkland had reached his peak; a cry tore from his throat, and on instinct, his hand came up to slap at Alfred's face—surprisingly, though neither would come to question it, Arthur touched skin, though no loud 'smack' echoed out. And yet, Alfred became startled, head whipping around with tornado-like speed towards the elder.

"Just shut up and let me speak, you bastard!" Now the tears were coming faster, flowing with extra bitter salt, "Do you think I would want you to leave now? I…I have been running around everywhere, looking for you! And…Yes, I wanted you to leave, because I thought it was _what was best_ for you! Moving on, to the Other Side, or whatever the fucking Hell it is called."

"…" Silence enveloped them both, a trembling hand covering Arthur's mouth, cupping his chin slightly; Alfred only ogled the male before, and could only murmur, "You…were looking for me?"

"…Y-Yes. I…I thought you…you had…"

"Arthur…"

"…I thought you had left me…" A slightly mute whisper, his shoulders slumping even farther down as a result; he was at his lowest point, Arthur Kirkland knew it…and it was not up to him to rise from this point. Only one other person could raise him up, and it was _his-_the other boy's_- _choice; it was Alfred's choice to do such a thing.

"…I can't leave you because-"

"Yes, yes, because of that 'Bond', but…but…" The question was on the tip of his pink, wet tongue, but would it come? Oh, he tried, Arthur tried to push it forward with all of his mental might, but it just would not budge.

Thankfully, the American was not as stupid as he seemed; although Arthur could not see the smile upon the baby-faced nineteen year old's complexion, he could feel it in the tone of his voice, hear it, and nearly taste it, if that sense was applicable.

"…I wouldn't leave you even if I had the option, Arthur."

A frazzled head with even more frazzled locks shot up, jade eyes colliding with the diamond-colored, ghostly hued orbs, "…W-What?"

"I wouldn't leave you even if I had the freedom to do so. I…I don't want to. So if you don't want me to go, I won't be going any time soon." The younger male was smiling warmly, not an ounce of cocky attitude oozed from the grin, and for the umpteenth time since Alfred had arrived…

…Arthur's heart melted.

"A-Are you sure? I mean…What does…What does the Other Side contain? D-Do you pass on?"

"Heh. Contains? Nothing, really." The boy shrugged his shoulders, "It's just this foggy area of grey clouds; supposedly, it can turn white, but there's just grey smog. Sometimes you meet other spirits, but it's pretty rare…And you sit there, and wait, wait for somethin', I don't know what it is, but it can get pretty lonely. I don't know everything about it, so that's pretty much all I can say."

"…I see." Internally, the Briton cursed himself; he should have just asked the spirit about it in the first place! How could he send someone like Alfred, a man who probably bled rainbows and sunshine and horrible jokes when no one was looking, to a place like _that_?

"…But I don't want to stay just for that reason. I don't want to leave you just because of the Other Side. I…want to stay…because…er…"

Surprisingly, the boy had gone shy; a hand coming up to caress the back of a head, spectacles slipping slightly on a downturned nose a face…Yes, he had all the classic symptoms of shyness, and Arthur found his heart beating faster; his Alfred? Shy? It seemed blasphemous, truly!

"Because why?" Softly speaking, the scruffy, somewhat-darker blonde stepped closer to the ghost, hands finally overcoming their own shyness, and reaching out to touch ghostly appendages, who, to neither of their surprise, accepted the English touches, tiny blue sparks dancing off their tips as Arthur held them firmly.

"…Because I care about you." It was whispered quietly enough so that only Arthur heard it—or, at least, that had been Alfred's goal. But somewhere on the Other Side, spirits were applauding with joy; for the duo was always being watched, always. By the Gods, by the Spirits, by their friends, and possibly their foes, and yet, neither male knew it. Kiku Honda himself, a highly ranked spirit guardian of the Other Side, could not help but break his always-serious expression with a tiny, heartfelt smile.

But back on the plains of Earth, Arthur could only stare at the ghost's admission; he was staring like a drunken idiot, holding hands with a semi-shaky grasp. They had not been this close to each other since earlier that day, when the car had broken down, and Arthur realized now, in the 'heat' of the moment, how much he had missed it.

"I…care about you as well."

_I love you…_

_I love you…_

_I've fallen in love with you, in such a small amount of time, that it seems almost dream-like…but that does not mean that I want it to end…_

_I wish I could only just…say it…_

_I said it so easily in my head, Alfred…I really did…_

The shy smile that Alfred had had exploded like noisy fireworks into a grin of surprise and elated joy—but even those words were too tame to truly describe the smile, the happiness. And now Arthur felt his heart was going to explode; he had not confessed all of his feelings, but he had confessed enough—for now.

"I'm sorry I wasn't nearby, by the way; I wanted to look at the stars. Hey!"

"Hm?"

"Still want that hug?"

"Wha-" Startled by the sudden question, the Kirkland was given no time to respond before Alfred yanked his hands out of steel-tight hold the Englishman had had them in (It had been as if he feared Alfred would retreat had he not touched him in some way) and the ghostly appendages were free to grab skinny shoulders, arms wrapping around a thin body after pulling said body closer.

If Arthur's face had been blushing earlier, now it was a bright red; he could feel every muscle in Alfred's body, especially when he placed his hands gently on the firm chest before him. The arms around his back, his waist, mostly, were firm, rock-solid, and exhaled a type of embrace that screamed 'I will protect you'.

And the warmth, dear God, the _warmth_…He felt so human, like this, and if Arthur had not known better, he would have said that the American was.

_No, no… He is human…He is just not mortal…_

Absently, for some moments, Arthur secretly gazed at the male holding him, said man having closed his eyes in joy, a wide smile on his face as the hug continued, neither wanting to break away; snickering teenagers would have teased the Briton about him staring dreamily, wistfully, or any number of 'romantic' adjectives—he would have bitten their heads off, and later giggled to himself at their being right.

A sigh fell from the politician's lips, and daringly, Arthur rested his head against the taller male's chest, where a heartbeat would have been—nevertheless, the absence of sound did not disturb the Kirkland. He figured he was too used to Alfred by now, and all that mattered now was the embrace, the kind and loving warmth the ghost ooze during these precious moments; had anyone else seen Arthur at that moment, the would have seen him leaning against nothing, just the thin air. But Crofton's streets were devoid of citizens while its inns and homes contained them.

"You tired?" Alfred questioned after a while of them standing there, holding one another, for by now, Arthur had fisted his hands into the dead pilot's shirt, closing his eyes lazily, mainly because the ghost had moved a hand to stroke his hair, and God Almighty, it felt so wonderful…

"Mm. 'm fine."

"You're barely able to talk, I don't think you're fine, heh. Those dark circles under your eyes are gonna get bigger~" Alfred spoke in a sing-song-type of voice, and it only caused the Kirkland to snort, and retort with,

"Shut up."

"Ahaha! You're really cute, you know that, right?"

"…" Arthur chose not to respond, merely nuzzling his face deeper into the specter's chest, which actually reverberated with another laugh.

"I'll take that as a 'Yes, O Wise Alfred, I do know that'."

"…You're being a cheeky bastard again, don't push me."

"Aw, but pushing you is fun-"

"I wish I could push _you _into something, you annoying Yank. Now shut up and…and let me enjoy this."

"…Of course, heh." The stroking of his hair continued, and Arthur wondered if he would start purring like a kitten at any moment; but he remained mute, a tiny smile on his face, his tired body beginning to shut down and drift back into the world of slumber.

For his nightmare had been vanquished—the Kirkland could rest easily once again.

* * *

Five minutes later, his breathing was steady, and thankfully Alfred had noticed the change; a small chuckle escaped his ghostly lips, for only the never-stopping-five-minutes-to-rest Arthur Kirkland could doze off in a hug, while _standing upright_.

With as much gentleness as he could muster, the ghost moved his hands southward, towards Arthur's bum—he figured the man would not care of the destination at this moment—and gently placing themselves there, they lifted with extra care. Once Arthur was steadily in his grasp, the fingers moved to grasp his side, until the end result was Arthur being carried, bridal-style.

Walls could not stop Alfred F. Jones, not anymore, at least; phasing through them with ease, the ghost floated upwards to the second floor, holding the small body in his arms like it was a Crown Jewel—not that Alfred knew what Crown Jewels were, he would have to have a history lesson years from now on such a thing.

"Al…"

Arthur's body turned on its own, snuggling deeper into the ghost's own body and arms, and for a split second, Alfred thought the elder had awoken, and had called his name, and would, at any second, interject and refuse to be carried farther. But none of his guesses came true, and Arthur merely continued to snuggle, letting out a sigh now and then, as Alfred made his way back to the bedroom.

His load was gently lowered to the thrown-about sheets, and the ghost heard a sigh escaping the sleeping male's lips; without a word or a laugh, Alfred gave the older man's hair one last pet, before backing up slowly—slowly, and only two steps, for more words escaped Arthur's lips.

"Don't leave me…"

Alfred turned; Arthur had not moved, he was still lying upon the bed, lying upon his back, hands and arms laying haphazardly across his chest, but there was a tiny smile on his face. Though he had just been pleading, it was as if, in another world, his plea had been answered. And the ghost wanted to answer it in this one as well.

Decision made instantly, the American returned to his companion's side, and bent down, whispering with the utmost softness,

"I won't if you'll have me."

And the next movement, Arthur would never feel; sleeping mortals could not feel every touch of a spirit, and Alfred was grateful for that; he did not want the twenty-three year old to awaken as ghostly lips touched warm, human ones, Alfred bending over Arthur's prone body, conveying every emotion into the kiss, each emotion he had been unable to say moments before.

The kiss was one-sided—or so Alfred thought; in the European's dreams, it was only irony, yet still, the kiss was taking place, with as much fervor as Arthur could manage.

Neither wanted to be cowards anymore—they were finally starting to realize that it was getting them nowhere.

They had already made up their minds this night that they could no longer hide everything; and so they would begin breaking barriers, like the ones that had been shattered upon this full-moon night.

Arthur would need some advice before he would make the first move—for Alfred, although he was a hero, a brave, strong hero, he would not make the first move with this.

After all, he was merely the Servant of the Master…

But he did decide to lie next to his 'Master', his companion, friend…and love. Arms pulled Arthur close, the living mortal sighing into the embrace.

He need not sleep, so Alfred did not do such a thing; merely lying there, resting, closing his eyes off and on while listening to the Kirkland's breathing was more than enough for him. It relaxed his restless soul, his nonexistent-physically heart, and it just made everything else fall into place completely.

Cowardice and Agony were dying—he was going to make sure of it; _both_ of them were going to make sure of it.

Arthur could not let him go now—if anything, his plan had done a complete one-eighty. He was going to find a way to save Alfred, save his soul, make him whole again…

After all, if there was a spell to send him back, who was to say that there was not a spell to make him whole again? To allow him to stay here?

Truth crashed around them this day, and Cowardice itself had been the victim of_ tens of thousands _of swords—and Arthur would be damned if he would let it come back to life.

It was just the beginning of vices dying; there was soon going to be no place for either of them to hide, no more walls to hide behind, fearing what their feelings could do to do one another.

…And neither of them would have it any other way.

"I won't if you'll have me…"

It was repeated again, solely for the thrill Alfred got of saying the kind, loving words.

…Yes, indeed.

Neither of them would have it, any and all of it, all of what was to come, any other way...

* * *

_"A man can die but once."_

_- From King Henry IV, Part II_

_(Act III, Scene II)_

* * *

A/N: WOO. Wow, yeah, this is why I haven't updated anything in a long while—because I've been writing this monster, haha.

So, I've had Savior all finalized and planned out—there's eight chapters left, so plan for that to be updated more frequently. I'll probably updated that next, and slide a chapter of 'Romeo' in, and then just pump out Savior like a mad woman XD You'll see this updated later, because the next chapter's short.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this :3 And I hope it was worth the wait. I've got about a month until college starts (A little over), so wish me luck!

Also: New poll concerning two new USxUKxUS stories is on my profile. Go have a vote!

Thanks for reading more, more to come!

Also: This chapter was THIRTY-EIGHT PAGES LONG XD DANG!


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